The Sky People's War
by Knight.of.The.North
Summary: Humanity is back; and they've got big guns. Led by General Greyson, one of the greatest generals known to man, and his 'secret weapons', they have returned to Pandora. But it's not for the reason the Na'vi think... Chapter 11 up!
1. Wolves of The Sky

**A/N:** This is the redone first chapter. My original first chapter was, in total honesty, utter shite. I will be taking a pattern of New Chapter, redone Chapter from here on out, until I have redone 1-6. I just look at them at think "I can do so much better." The story will not change, but the dialogue and style sure as anything will. Anyway, to all you new readers, I sincerely hope you enjoy!

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_...Didn't you hear? Wolves Never Die..._

Jon woke up. Never a pleasant experience for him, but he did it anyway. A crewman pulled him from his cryo tube and undid the straps attaching him to his home for the last 6 –FUCKING- years. He'd had a going over which felt an awful lot like this a few decades ago, and he'd had to run up a mountain with nothing but his socks and a combat knife literally days after. Those were the days. When you earnt an asskicking, instead of being given it for no other reason then because you slept too long. Around him, the other staff officers were emerging like gnats from a hive. Giving the crew man a look that echoed the inner turmoil inside this, which began and ended with 'Nasty shit, this', he held out his hand. The crewman, a pale dark-haired individual, looked at him as if he'd just asked for the testicles of the Dalai Lama.

"My earpiece?" It was an emotionless growl, and little else. He wasn't in the mood for giving a dressing down to some ISV tar; he had things to do. So when the crewman blinked in surprise, hurriedly pulled a small black bead from his pocket and slapped it into Demar's outstretched hand, before floating off.

Cracking his stiff neck, and hearing the familiar hum of the shrapnel behind his right ear, he slid the bead into his left ear, most of the lobe long ago missing.

"Sir, you awake?" He spoke, even as he ghosted over to his locker.

"Aye, Dema'. Get yer stuff an' mee' me in tha' 'anga' ASAP." Came the General's gruff tone over the VOX. It wasn't half as fierce as Demar had expected. No comments on his genetic heritage; no examinations on his manhood. Oh god, Demar grumbled, he was getting soft. The hardest man this side of the Neolithic Age was getting soft.

Cranking his locker open, his meagre possessions greeted him. Military boots; old, worn, but immaculate from years shining, pulled on with familiarity. Officer's jacket, grey and formal, which he pulled over his cryo-suit: he could change later. Grey drainpipe trousers; which he slipped into like a Surgeon slipping on latex gloves. Old, familiar, yet so new at the same time. Just below these key components of being an uptight fuck, were the things that distinguished him. A picture of his wife, Maria, and their son, Matthew...He would be twelve now. Only six years with him, before Jon had left to die. His service revolver; a nasty thing, crude, a relic of a cruder time, but useful. And his pips. Worn by Colonel 'Fenris' Greyson, and before him, Colonel Harry 'Ruination' Demar. Old pips, these. Two diamonds and a crown. Bloodstained, blood-tested and battle-hardened.

Jon hated them with a passion, but he clipped them onto his collar anyway. Tapping his ear, he spoke quickly over the Staff channel.

"Alright. Hit planetside in the ROC's, people. Welcome to Pandora; most of us won't be leaving.

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Longfang did not need an Exo-Pack. When he was being grown, a unique chemical had been pumped into his blood, called Antiphaxyin. Utterly unique in that is dragged the immune system to the very brink of breaking, making it so strong it could even take on nerve gas, without actually harming the body. Quite simply, it tricked the immune system.

Looking down from the Scorpion, as they flowed over the green jungles of these legendary haven of nature, Longfang appreciated why the RDA stockholders had been reluctant to inflict too much damage upon this place. He was eager to see whether the RDA had been overwhelmed, or not. They were getting a transmission signal, but no response. UN Estimates had not advised an attempt to mine Pandora, but the RDA had not listened; technically, they should have been overwhelmed two months ago, according to careful tactical analysis. But, as every fighting man knew, tactical analysis was like commenting on the salt composure of the sea floor from orbit. By eye.

In Layman's terms, it meant jack shit.

Longfang had no way of knowing that the great battle had taken place sixteen months before.

Greyson hung out of the Scorpion, his great wagon of a fist hanging intensely onto a hanging strap. Longfang's father had changed in the last days of The Siberian Offensive. His beard had grown thick, and long, as had his hair. The intense, scorching grey eyes had softened to mere dull lights. Britannia had changed him. But Longfang would never comment on his father. No, this man had done to much for him. Now, he grinned at him.

"Think yer up fer i', laddy?" His quirky tone bellowed over the sound of the Scorpion's rotars, and his grin sparked across at him.

"With all due respect, Paps, I'll be there before you."

He didn't give his father a chance to respond. Gripping the side of the gunship, he shot out into embrace of atmosphere like a feather dropped from a rooftop. Dressed in nothing but a combat jacket, camouflage fatigues and army boots, anyone would think he was insane, stupid, and suicidal. They'd be right, but that wasn't the point. He would survive, that was a fact. He was born to take on the worst environments, weapons, circumstances and intel fuck-ups that any dumbass up ontop could dish out.

Hitting the top of a giant tree, he slid down the great, slippery leaf and onto a grainy, luminescent vine.

"Aaah, tha's m' boy!" The General chuckled, turning back inside the Gunship. Demar was sitting, stoic, straight-backed and almost contemptful. Well, he was. He accepted Longfang as a highly valuable asset, but the way he regarded Serra; his genetic daughter, was incredibly...noteworthy. Ala, he tried to fuck her everytime she walked past. More often then not, she did the same.

"ETA is thirty minutes, Sir." Jon stated, resisting the intense temptation to sneer and swear.

"Aye, aye. Been a lon' tim' sinc' I simply enjoye' this kin' o' flyin'..." Maybe because you were abit busy planning campaigns, reviewing manifests, commenting on the state of troops, and generally being a...errrr...FUCKING GENERAL!!! Had Demar not known Greyson for most of his life, he would have said it, and damn the consequences. But he had, so his response was as if Greyson had insulted him, and stated that he wished to know his opinion.

"The Rotary Orbital Carriers will be hitting Planetside a few minutes after we reach Hell's Gate, sir. Two platoons of Rifles will be the first down. I suggest establishing contact with the natives ASAP." Subconsciously, Demar was screaming. But he had built up a very specific level of intelligence in his lifetime. He was smart enough to know that if he taunted the General too soon, the following beating would not so much as land him in sick bay...More the morgue. And the fucker wouldn't regret it. So he kept it to himself, for now. Because he was a Soldier. That's what Soldiers do. Take the smart option.

Greyson nodded, like a sickly boar conceding to the Hunter's wisdom to kill him. He waved his hand in a dismissive manner as he sat down, taking a deep breath in. Oh, so he was unfit now? Even better.

As any astute reader would have appropriately deduced by now, Colonel Jon Demar was not a thoughtless grunt. He was quite the opposite. Few had his head for Maths, even fewer his tolerance for Greyson, and he was completely unknown from one side of the globe to the other. You read that right – Unknown.

"Alrigh', laddy. I'mma ge' some sac' time. Ye' wake me when we 'it ground."

Fucking lazy twat.

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Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, OW!

Longfang dropped from the vine onto a thick, dazzlingly bright tree branch, blowing quickly at his burnt hands. Should've let go before his hands had caught, metaphorical, fire upon the branches, but No. He had to hold on just that _little _bit longer, didn't he. Well, he was going to live with that mistake for about...ooooh, say, five minutes? Yanking a small metal cannister, the size of a modern pepper spray, from his pocket, he sprinkled his hands with Plasti-cast. It was a highly effective liquid-to-solid plaster, which closed cuts, stiffened broken bones, and applied antisceptic and painkillers to wounds. Damned good in the field, and it never let you down. Well, unless you pierced the cannister. Then it could be used as a rudimentary explosive. There were some funny stories behind that...

But Longfang didn't have time for reminisces. He had time to get through this forest, alive, hopefully, to Hell's Gate. Wouldn't get there before the bloody Scorpion, of course. Not even he could do sixty miles in thirty minutes. Could try, though.

'Getting ahead of yourself' He thought, closing his eyes and tapping his skull. What are the threats? You can avoid Thanators. Hammerheads; same situation. Viperwolves hunt mostly at night...but still...

Viperwolves are the main threat. Oh, and the ten foot tall natives. Y'know, the ones with give foot arrows of nerve poison. Think, you twat! Never underestimate anything with half a brain. Never underestimate an environment. And always carry bog roll. The three rules of wilderness survival. Padding himself down, Longfang found himself forgetting rule number three. Well, it was only essential if you were a shitter, so Longfang was pretty certain he'd be alright.

Looking around him, he found himself briefly transfixed by the beauty of Pandora. Climbing trees of massive height; a product of the lower gravity.

Should all burn quite nicely in Longfang's opinion.

He took off like an arrow from the string, bursting through the foliage like an artillery round. Speed was his advantage, like the well-practiced agility of a master swordsman coupled with the sheer brutal power of a diving falcon. Over this tree branch, bounce off that rockface, roll, keep running. Endurance was his advantage. Marching over the Himalayas had taught him that. Breathless, tireless, relentless. Fearless? Nah, as became quite apparent when he heard growls behind him. Something was following, and that was about as good as a shotgun round to the face.

_Think, yer dirty ar's runt! Collec' yerself an' use wha' I gav' ye! Turn! Stan'! If ye die, atleas' yer'll die like a man!_

His father's words, some of the first words he'd ever heard, and a hundred times after that, rung violently in his ears. He sniffed, his enhanced olfactory organs picking up three distinguished, but similar scents. Running alongside him. Could only be Viperwolves.

_Choos' yer terrain carefully. If an avenu' o' escap' means you los' yer advantag', fuck the escap'. Win._

He chose a gully; where the landscape dipped down into the ground, much like an impact crater. But in the center, a pool of glowing, vibrant water clustered round a colossal tree. Drawing a combat knife, he put his back against the tree, and waited. Wouldn't be too long now.

Sure as anything, the creatures appeared on the ridge. Three deadly predators, roughly a meter and a half long from nose to tail. Six clawed legs which worked with perfect co-ordination and optimum balance. Two great antennae. And, far more noticeably, great snapping jaws that, if they got within killing range, wouldn't have much of a problem chomping through Longfang's neck.

But they were three. He was one.

Flicking his combat knife from it's sheath, he placed his arm across his neck, knife held outwards. His left arm was outstretched, knees bent, and mouth open.

"Ahuuk tahuuk!" He snapped at them, shooting his head forwards in an obvious taunt.

They were smart. First one feinted at his legs, before leaping away at the last second. It's packmate went for his throat; but Longfang's guard was designed for such an attack. With his outstretched arm, he sweeped the piouncing creature aside in mid-air, gripped it's antennae and killed it clean as a butcher; knife through the frontal lobe. Well, if it had one. Death? 0.09804491 seconds. Pain level? Non-existent in anything but an overcharged nervous system.

The guard came straight back up, and he flared his teeth again.

"Urst tahuuk vragar!" He cried, allowing himself a brief celebration in the form of a grin. But they were coming again. This time, they both pounced. One low, for his legs, the other high, from his right. He couldn't block them both? Even he wasn't that fast? Yet he had time to think. To remember a quote from the father.

_Boy. You eva' fin' yerself in a positio' wher' yer fucke' 'igh an' low – ge' creativ'._

It wasn't easy to throw his combat knife **as **he leapt forward. Not easy at all. But he moved, just in time, as the Viperwolf's jaws snapped where his throat would've been. Got a knife into the eye for it's trouble. Death? Argh! WHO CARED?!

But the hard part was not so much as risky, but suicidal. He wanted to...No time, now or never!

IT WORKED! IT WORKED! Streaks of joy went up from every part of his body as his hands gripped the Viperwolf's jaws. Three fingered claws came, slashing at his wrists, but he held tight. Because he was used to pain. Plus, the beast was scratching at steel-plates; his wristbomes had been replaced years ago.

Okay, okay. Your hands are tired. Now calmly, and quickly, break the thing's jaws, or you're going to die of blood loss from a lucky shot. Not so easy. Never was.

He roared, a bestial thing to do, but he did it anyway as he started to push the Viperwolf's jaws further and further apart. Once they were about about ninety degrees, it started to whimper. Stopped clawing; started trying to escape. That look in it's eyes of terror. Started screaming.

_Us Wolves? We're all the same, laddy. Neva' forge' tha'. Or I'll kill ya'._

Damnit. He couldn't kill it. It was a Wolf, begging for it's life, and there was nothing in it. With a grudging huff at his own weakness, Longfang pushed the Viperwolf away. It whimpered off, but not before looking back briefly. Holding it's ground behind a bush, it seemed intent on him. The thing about Wolves was; if it's pack died, it looked for another one...

Even if that pack was the one which murdered it's family.

Longfang looked at it; eyes of callous steel meeting those of fierce loyalty. A match of wills. Longfang gave him, sinking to a squatting position and holding out it's hands. Tentatively at first, it came closer, noticing the blood upon the human's hands. Like the noble scavenger it was, it licked his palm.

"We'll meet again, Loki." Longfang promised, before disappearing into the underbrush.


	2. Planetside

**A/N: **Another updated chapter. Keep reviewing!

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Greyson was a professional soldier to the core. And noone used that title light; usually it's an insult. Born into hell; a runt in the slums of Edinburgh. The constant drug trade was still sweeping the country, and Greyson was the son of two heavy-duty users. He grew up fighting, kicking, scratching for every breath. Theft was the only way of living; he was never taught how to read until 2116, when he was 10; this was the Year that the UN swept the drug-slums, and pulled out over 3000 screaming, drug-addicted children. Matthew was lucky; he was not addicted. But he had been brutalised more times then he could count, and was half-blind in one eye. A fear of any man bigger then him forced him into rehabilitation for 3 years. Only after these years was he allowed to begin to learn.  
And learn he did. For 5 years, he was sped through basic primary and secondary teachings. He learnt incredibly quickly; and left Edinburgh Sanatorium with a stoic expression. He was going to be someone.  
He applied to join the UN Military as an Officer, but was ruthlessly turned down; before being conscripted into The British Fusiliers.  
In Tibet, he fought with distinction during it's liberation; a slow and sluggish process. 5 Terrible years that saw the loss of Greyson's hand and mercy. Upon leaving that hellhole, dozens of new scars sprinkled across him, he began to study; he served in 'Peacekeeping' actions across South America for a further two years, before being put through Officer training after winning 2 Victoria Crosses in a day; after he personally held a Hospital from Chilean Terrorists; losing his left arm and leg in the process.  
He was the first patient of a pioneering cybernetics experiment. The Chilean Government paid for it in gratitude, but no one expected him to survive. But they underestimated his will.  
It was during the 15 year Siberian Offensive that saw him rise to fame; from 3rd Lieutenant to General. How? He was a brilliant mathematician, and was assigned to General Kutuzov's staff. In this, he began to offer the general advice. At first, Kutuzov glared and berated him for his insolence, but when he began to realise the young Lieutenant's ideas were genius. From then, his rise was meteoric. By the 12th year of the Campaign, of forcing combined Russio-Chinese forces across the harshest terrain on Earth, General Greyson was elected as The Commander in Chief to conquer China. This he did with a single, decisive strike; he'd been planning it since the first day he had set foot in Siberia.

But he hated scientists, sometimes. Well, that's a big sometimes, the only man he'd ever got along with for more then a drink of the hip flask was a Scientist; but he was dead now, so it didn't count. They had this way about fucking things up; from the SecFor head's manifest, that's exactly what happened. Give a soldier a gun, and he'll field-strip it, put it back together and shoot it. Give a scientist a gun, and he'll spend 5 minutes looking down the barrel before pulling the trigger to see what happens. These two tree-hugging freaks weren't worth the skin they were made of. But they had kept the inside of the base moderately serviceable, so they weren't all bad. Even as he smoked his cigar, caustically, he could see that.  
Unfortunately, Jon Demar wasn't in the mood to give a runny shit what his superior thought. The Scientists were standing around the Tactical Display Desk, trying to look as big and imposing as possible. One had this way about him; he was thin, spindly, sleep-deprived, but he stood like he should be taller. Looked like the kind of guy who'd spent half his life worrying about big brutish lads, the other half about quantum equations. None of which Demar cared about.  
The other was an idiot's drawing of a scientist: Asian, more then likely British-Indian, thick-rimmed glasses, stubble around his jaw. Decently cleaned white jacket.  
Both looked across at Demar and Greyson like new inmates at an asylum. That hounded looked. That scared look. That uncertain look. He'd seen it so many times; oftimes it was justified. Less often, it wasn't.  
Greyson was fixated with his datapad like a drunk child with a new bottle of brandy. Tapping it, seeing the pretty lights, smiling, tapping it again. It was quite obvious that he was looking through Quaritch's manifest; which Demar had already gone over three times, but why did he have to look like an idiot while doing it? It was one of those moments that made Demar wish he'd told Greyson to shove his offer up his arse.

"_I'm not a Soldier, anymore, Grey. I've got a family. A fortune. I can live like a King until my dying day."  
"An' kno' ye mates die' defendin' ye?"_

Greyson always had his number, even in the wretched state he'd been in. Always did, probably always would. Fortunately, 'always' was becoming shorter and shorter by the second.  
With a cool flick of his wrist, Demar gestured to the two men.

"Norm Spellman and Max Patel. Current lead scientists upon Pandora, following the..." Sometimes the right word is the harshest. Never be afraid to use it "...destruction of the SecFor Security Forces and the exodus of the RDA. We have official documentation here from the UN handing all command, resources and personnel over to us." A datacube. A tiny crystalline creation with approximately 0..0001mg of Unobtanium as a memory transmitter. He placed it upon the table, tapped it, and six, great flowing documents presented themselves upon the blank tactical display desk. There were written in the kind of scrawl for which scribes are named for. Flowing, intricate, precise and fantastically ornate; Scribes spent their whole lives learning to write like this. The collective thought brought a tiny smile to each of their faces, but it was quickly suppressed by the fact it made them look like a gay crime fighting team.

And they were most certainly not that.

The two scientists no more then glanced over the documents, looking for any faults, but they weren't lawyers. It was hopeless. They sighed, deeply and nodded at the soldiers; like old men ready to be put to bed after baring with the in-laws for a few deafening decades. A part of Demar wanted to laugh, but they weren't all broken. Yes, they may have been resigned to give over Command, but they still had their opinions.

"Alright. You win. Seems the Na'vi will have to cope with another invasion." Max said, his eyes bouncing around with that fire that told of hate. It amused Demar, worried Greyson and buoyed up Spellman.

"Y'know, it's not exactly like they haven't already been through enough. Now you're coming to exterminate them." He had started to move towards them, now, and Demar wasn't really in the mood for this. Taking a few, lightning steps around the desk, he slammed his fist into Norm's cheek, sending him crashing to the ground with an audible crash, thunk and thud, like a Hawk taking out a Pigeon in mid-flight. As he was hit, had adrenaline not been pumped into his body and if it had lasted more then a second, he would have noticed the feel of metal in Demar's knuckles. Unfortunately, he didn't. Demar simply flexed his hand, eyed the other scientist and replied "Read the document."

Max was kneeling beside Norm at this point, and looking at Demar as if he'd just shot him. Norm had a massive purple spot across the side of his face, but Demar was a control-freak; if he'd wanted to do serious harm, he'd have gone for the ribs, or temples.

"Read. The. Document." Demar replied, producing a small woolen cloth from his pocket and let it fall down towards Norm. Gesturing to his face, Demar nodded as Norm found it icy cool, and plenty of anaesthaetic. As Max read, he knelt beside him.

"My apologies. But the word extermination has a very specific effect on me." Yeah, right. His face hadn't changed abit through the whole incident; from hearing the word to giving him the cold compress.

"Erm...Norm. I think we may have these guys wrong." It was said in the tentative voice that symbolised that Demar had got them. His gamble had paid off, quite expertly. And all because the UN didn't trust them...

Well, they had every reason not to.

Max helped Norm up, and pointed to a line, half way down, on the sixth piece of paper. Quite clearly, in the same ornate hand writing, was the beginning of a very long section dictating the clauses under which all authority would be removed.

'_Should any of these clauses be met by the 'Aesir' Expeditionary Force, all authority is hereby returned to it's previous owners. Leaders of said Expeditionary are ordered to be dishonourably discharged, pending court-martial._

_1 – The firing upon with live rounds of any members of the indigenous population known as the 'Na'vi'._

_2 – The allowance of the Insectivorus Decimatus (known as 'Roaches') to take control of the moon known as 'Pandora'_

_3 – The allowance of the fall of Tactical Landing Site classified 'Hell's Gate'..._

The list went on, to include everything from the incorrect distribution of supplies to the breakdown of discipline. There was easily twenty nine of them, and the Scientists were amazed at the simple stupidity of it all. These men were treading a tenuous wire in a war. But they simply nodded, and looked up at Demar and Greyson. Best not to let it show; if these guys were anything like Quaritch, they'd pounce on it. Hard.

But Greyson seemed utterly consumed in his datapad, occasionally frowning at the thing. Demar, as his boots clattered across the floor to stand beside the man, briefly gave him a very dry look, before returning his aquiline gaze to the Scientists.

"There are many systems on base which are not operational. Your team will be aiding the Division's technicians in getting them up and running." The colonel said, maintaining his stone like fascade with a dedication that hinted at actual emotional retardation. Well, Norm liked to think so, anyway. But they weren't mechanics! They were the members of the Avatar Program; Norm, Max and four others had either lost their Avatar bodies, but the rest used there's quite regularly. Never used the main lab, though. That place was haunted.

"Alright, alright, just don't hit me again." Norm joked, half-chuckling. It died in his throat when he saw the slightly contemptful expression upon Demar's face. But then he saw that the soldier was looking past him. At the thin haze on the horizon...Ikrans.

With equal vigor, Norm and Max looked at Demar and Greyson, nervous expressions dancing across their faces. Demar tapped his earpiece, and spoke

"Riflemen. Stun rounds only. Form firebases, defend the landing strip. Command out."

For the Colonel, that was that. Nothing else would come of it. That was the end of the incident, from start to finish. It was like he knew the outcome.

His eyes turned to Greyson.

"Sir, I am going to oversee the battle."

Greyson nodded, still focused upon the blasted datapad.

"Go with 'em, boy." He muttered, to confused looks from the scientists. From out of nowhere, a six-foot 20 year old dropped down directly behind the two men. He loved doing that; just pleasantly reminding these squares that he was always watching. Placing a hand upon each shoulder, the long-haired phantom grinned at them both with strangely long canines.

"Aye, aye. How you doing, lads?" He wink at Norm, before sprinting off after Demar. That boy was something else entirely. A Wolf, but not a Wolf. A killer. To his bones. Didn't love nothing more then busting into an enemy barracks and slitting some throats. Strangely, Greyson spoke this thoughts, to the...The current word being 'shit scared' expressions upon Norm and Max's faces.


	3. The Men of the 3rd

3rd Chapter. Took some doing. Hope you enjoy; please review!

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Jake had seen the Sky People return, and shuddered in dread. He'd known they'd come back, but so soon? So soon...Neytiri was pregnant with their child. The Omaticaya were only just returning to Hometree. They had lost much, and were only just starting to rebuild. How? It should have taken the best part 12 years for a message to reach Earth and for an army to return? By then, they would have been ready...But now? No, not now. They were only just beginning...They were supposed to have years...For Enya to recover, for the Banshees to breed and multiply, for the Omaticaya Clan to grow strong once more. This wasn't right!

And they had brought that strange one. The one who needed no mask, and ran like a Nantang...And killed like one, too. Killing those Wolves had seemed almost casual to him; then, what he'd done afterwards...Bonding without the braid? Strange. But Jake only knew that he had to get these humans out before they established a presence here. The Omaticaya couldn't take another battle; and something about these humans said they weren't like the RDA.

So, Jake sat, beneath the sapling Hometree, and thought. Children of The People occasionally scampered past, but not without bowing their heads first; they would stop, bow, then continue into the forest. Hunters drove any Thanator's away from Hometree, but other then that there was many dangers.

Jake's thoughts were interrupted by Neytiri, scrambling up the nearby branch. She was beautiful as ever, and her stomach was just starting to swell.

"Jake...What are we going to do about the Sky People?"

"Fight them."

Neytiri hissed at her love's stupidity.

"Have you seen how many there are?"

"We can try and give them a shock. Make them wary of coming down; give us time." Jake snarled back

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Greyson slipped his arms into the sleeves of his Officer's jacket, even as his son flashed the Wolf's grin. To effectively explain that boy would take milennia, and then you would still have to experience it yourself. He wanted a few days with him, just to get him straight. But General Greyson had only a few weeks to diplomatically reach an agreement with a people who were convinced the Planet was on their side, organise a defence and win. That was the hard part; winning. Even as he looked out over Hell's Gate; the courtyard at which the 3rd were landing was about 200 metres on each side; he saw the difficulty of that task. As about 50 'ikrans' were coming to seriously fuck up his plans. Tapping his right eye, the cybernetic implant zoomed in. War leader near the center. Bad news. So, they're trying to stop us landing? He thought. Well, he would give them a fusilade. Just like at Novgorod. They would regret this, dearly...If only he could...

But orders were orders.

Tapping his ear, he spoke clearly into every member of the 3rd's head.

"Stun roun's, boys. Don' wan' no kills."

Already, 50 or 60 Riflemen were forming up into two firebases, about 50 metres ahead of where the ROCS were landing. Good; the Banshees would have to attack bristling gun emplacements. No heavy callibre, but a firebase is essentially when squads form up into a circle of men, guns aimed outwards; this provides maximum firepower against air-based targets.

To his left, his son emerged, combat armour slapped on. It was little more then a carbon-steel breastplate slapped over his chest and back, aswell as two pauldrons. With a speed that only Wolves knew of, he disappeared into the fray.

Demar appeared beside Greyson, nodding, even as their marine detail arrived. The men who had served as Greyson's command staff for a very long time, now.

"Let's get going, Sir." spoke Master Sergeant Fighting Buffalo, a Santee Sioux Indian, but a damned fine NCO.

In response, Greyson chuckled and nodded. They quickly made their way through the base to what had been the Command Center. By that time, the Na'vi were almost upon them.

"Alrigh', lads. Keep I' clean; ahuuk tahuuk." From below, the Riflemen echoed their Commander's sentiments with a great roar of "AHUUK TAHUUK!"

This wasn't something they enjoyed. This was something they did. Training and experience combined to make a flawless, disciplined machinations. In those squads, there were Tibetans, Chileans, Inuits, Sioux, English, Nantuckans. But there was a higher proportion of Englishmen. Greyson could remember meeting the remnants of the British Army, after the devastation of their country, and seeing them beg to get back at the bastards who'd killed their country. That had clinched it. You don't turn down men like that. Men who've lost everything; so they want to go ahead and go risk their lives? Men are strange. Very much so. But there's something heartwarming in the simple act of wanting to go across a Solar System, an impossible distance, and take the prize right from under the noses of those who destroyed your world. Greyson liked that in men.

But, in the end, they all combined to make one nation; 3rd 'Loki' Riflemen Battalion, 1st Battalion of 2nd Division "Wolves of Asgard", 56th Corp. Nothing existed but the nation. You died defending the guy next to you, no questions asked. Almost every single man down there had faced up the AMP Legions of China, and come out smiling. They held true to a simple maxim; If you're going through Hell, keep going and keep humorous Or else the horrors of war take you; and you become less. Every soldier goes through it at some point; where he decides to be a Soldier or a beast. Those men down there? They had chosen to be a Soldier. When they signed their lives away on that dotted line, they fucking meant it. And these guys had barely one new recruit between them; PFC Eric Potter.

* * *

On the ground, Private Potter was hesitant. Very much so. First ground mission, this. And against 10-foot blue cat-monkeys on dragons? Come on! Even as he hefted his XMX Assault Rifle, the other lads around him were steady as curtained iron. **He **wasn't. Knees were shaking, rifle sight shaking. Armour plates cracked together hesitantly. There was comfort though; firebase of 3 squads was pretty much a death-trap to any light flyers. It was a safe position, and his squad was safer still. Banks, the Comm-techy, could get that thing to work in 250mph freefall. Su-Yin had mastered demolitions to an art form; he liked to think of rubble as simply 'a masterpiece'. Biggest man in the Company, Owantunubu of the Masai could crush a bull's skull between those hands of his. Those were just 3 of the 9 men who accompanied. But there was one man who was a Veteran to the core. Buzzcut hair, rock-hard chin, cockney bruiser.

On their squad channel, Sergeant Sargeant (A highly amusing name until you met him) sub-vocalised commands.

"Keep in tight, lads. No gaps. Pick a target and pip it. Larson, no fucking wet noises. Potter, no dribbling or I'm sending you back to Hogwarts." Everyone chuckled. Under his helmet, Eric muttered a few profanities, and murmured, slightly louder, "Yes, Sir."

"Good boy. Now, get your arses ready."

Sergeant turned his head for a split second to examine Potter's weapon. Then, he growled, gripped it and slammed it onto stun.

"I'll deal with you later, you fucking cockmonkey..."

But by then, they were in range, and Demar's giant baritone came over the comm.

"Open fire, gentleman."

How can such a crisp, short command bring hell? Without a thought, Potter pulled the trigger, and so did 57 other Riflemen. Gas-charged explosives rounds; loaded with a paralytic nerve gas which was designed to tranquilize Blue Whales for science, pelted into the Na'vi. Welcome to the beauty of mechanics. Death will be your teacher today. Fire 50 rounds at your target; if he/she drops, switch to another. Now, drop the clip at your feet by tapping the release (as you do this, you should be finding a target); reach into your belt and pull a fresh clip. Slam it into the gun, and repeat.

Training videos make it sound so simple. It never is when they're bearing down on you. But to Eric? It was mechanical. He'd drilled it so many times, it was clockwork. His muscles just did it, naturally, not letting his nerves get the better of him. Humanity was itself a weapon, the Private realised, it was just born blunt.

One Banshee got through. About 20 feet away from him; the Na'vi is aimed a powerful arrow at him. He's reloading. He was done for.

With all the drama of taking a piss, Sarge turned and put 10 rounds into the Na'vi's skull. The flyer banked upwards, sharply, taking it's pilot with it.

"Fucking Smurfs." He stated, cold as ice. Potter didn't even have time to reply; they were backing off. A large Na'vi, with human-like eyes and a braid running down his head, was wrestling on the ground with that super-guy...Erm, erm...Longfang! Crazy bastard through to his core. Big long braids of blonde hair.

Moving in, they saw that Longfang had pinned the Na'vi by the throat, and was holding him down. 3 Assault Rifles are poised at his skull. He stopped struggling. Then, he spoke, perfect english.

"What are you doing here, you bastards!?"

Some of the Rifles were taken aback, including Potter, but Sarge and Longfang were used to being surprised, and didn't show it.

"You'll be the turncoat then?" Longfang said, grinning down at him. It was sweetly done; Sarge had caught the fight in the corner of his HUD, and was now replaying it on full, enhanced view. Same old Longfang. He'd waited until the Na'vi's attack was utterly commited; a dive bomb on a Banshee, and then sprung. Longy had been standing on a small storage shed, and the Na'vi turncoat had sprang at him off the banshee. Muscles are faster then momentum if you know how, and Longfang had let the Na'vi fly over his shoulder, grabbed his leg and threw him onto the ground.

Sarge chuckled. Patching a line through to the Colonel, he informed him -

"Sir, we've got 5 or 6 Na'vi prisoners, aswell as the turncoat. Request permission to transfer to secure holding cells."

"Granted, Sergeant, get them in lock-up, bring the turncoat to us, ASAP. Demar out." That was that, then.

"Longfang, you steaming pile of runt shit. Get him to Command." Longfang nodded, not so much as registering the insult. No point in responding to a Sergeant's jibes. With a fierce hit, the Na'vi turncoat was unconscious.


	4. The Moment of Truth

4th Chapter! This is going pretty fast! I'd like to thank everyone for their reviews. This is very much a domestic chapter, but it holds some really important info.

* * *

Messhall. Hell's Kitchen. Potter chuckled at hearing that name, for which he was given several 'What the hell you laughing at?' looks from his squad. He shut up, as you do. It was a simple place. Lots of steel tables, a window looking out on the Pandoran jungle, standard stuff for a Military base. Damned nice view, though. Perimeter fence engulfed by exotic foliage, and then half a mile of kill-terrain. That was a no man's land; where the gunners went to work. Some called it heaven, others called it hell. But it was beyond that where the real beauty lay. But beauty wasn't a soldier's thinking; especially not a Private after his first real engagement. The first thing on his mind is food.

Debriefed in the storage sheds; mercifully clean of foliage (compared to the rest of base), the Platoon was filing into the mess, and already the Cooks had landed and were doing what they did best. Sarge, forward as always, called over and pleasantly asked

"OI! Bogs! What's up for the grinder today?" Bogs was the head chef; big, tall, bad-tempered but really, really picky about his food. Already, he had his apron around his large waist and was wading into the kitchen.

"BY THE 5 FIRES OF CHICKEN TIKKA MASSALA!" He roared, as soon as he entered, prompting a burst of chuckling from the Rifles. That always meant 'jackpot'.

Coming out with a massive, metal tin easily as big as him, Boggs was grinning from ear to ear. He set it on the counter with a great effort, and opened it up.

"Howdy, boys. Get your mess tins! We got stew!" His thick Texan accent was hard to decipher (and even harder to write), but when it comes to the bloke who feeds you, you learn quick.

As one, the Rifles were formed up in a neat line. NCOs first, Sarge first among them.

"What kind of stew is this, Boggs?" He queried, half-grinning.

"God fuck me if I knew, Sarge!" That got a whack from Sarge.

"Don't take his name in vain, damn you!"

He did it, AS he was getting his stew with his mess tin. So that meant Boggs would be pissed with the rest of the Rifles.

It took some time for it to get to Potter; he was the newbie, so he got the scrapings. Turned out there was plenty for everyone, but the young PFC could remember finding a dead rat at the bottom of his tin, before. He thanked God, and ate it, like the Sarge told him. You do what the Sarge told you.

As the Rifles gingerly sat down to eat their meals, the banter started.

"Come on, Potsworth, sit your scrawny ass down." Owanutubu said, patting the seat next to him. It was different, usually he had to get his own table.

"Alright, Potter." Jacques said, nodding his head.

Sarge leaned forward, glaring at everyone.

"Join hands, lads."

Grace was said, with an added 'And when those fuckers come back, give us the holy might to smite them like the shits they are.'

Meal was allowed to continue. Eagerly pulling his spoon, Potter examined the tin's contents. It was a purple colour, with tiny bits of yellow and green floating in the sludge. Pretty much as one, they all shrugged and dug in. Didn't taste too bad, actually. Like a decent curry back home...

"Boys, I'd like to welcome a new member to our Brotherhood." Sarge stated, looking at his mess tin. As everyone stared at him, Potter looked around to see the new member.

"It's you, Potter."

Eric looked back, with a 'What the hell?' expression.

"First combat mission, you join the squad. Not before, not after. Live-fire or stun, long as the enemy are trying to kill you." There was a joint spattering of nods.

"First; nicknames. They can't have anything to do with your last name; first names are fair gam-."

"What about you, Sir?"

The Sergeant grimaced, a familiar expression and admitted

"My first name is Sergeant."

Anywhere else, that very well might have gotten a chuckle from the young gun. Not in the Rifles. You don't laugh at the Sarge.

So, the nicknames began. Owanutubu was 'Shaka', Jacques was 'Froggy', Yu-Sin: 'Gunpowder'. Banks was simply 'Techs'. San-Reyes was 'Chats'; Higgson was 'Bottom', Ivanonich was 'Cossack', and -finally- there was Glenn 'Cymru'.

"What does Cymru mean?"

"'Welcome' in Welsh."

"Now, lad, we gotta pick one out for you. I saw the way you handled that XMX. Best reload time I've seen on a gun-baby. So we've decided on 'Piston'." That was that. Potter was no longer to be known as Potter except to outsiders and officers. To everyone that mattered in day-to-day life, it was just 'Piston'.

"I like it, Sarge."

"Knew you would."

Cossack, his stern Russian eyes turned towards the door, grunted to let us know there were some intruders. About 17 squares were walking in; that's slang for Scientist. Most were looking round without surprise, almost with recognition, at the 57 Rifles gingerly eating the stew on the tables. Instantly, one caught Piston's eye, tall, sleek, shoulder length brown hair, young, female, and with an expression of disgust. Obviously, he, with his youthful appearance and powerful grey eyes, had the same note-worthy appearance, as their eyes met. She sneered, he chuckled, and Sarge saw it.

"Piston; we got orders to send a liaison to work with them. You're our man – go introduce yourself."

Oh, that FUCKER!

"Thank you, Sarge." The PFC said, angrily, through gritted teeth, as he slammed down his spoon.

"Pleasure, Pist!" That brought a burst of chuckling from the squad, even Piston had half a grin on. 5 Other Rifles followed him up to the Scientists at the end of the Messhall; and they quickly agreed, without his consent, of course, that Piston would be doing the talking.

This they indicated by nudging him forward. The lass who'd given him the devil-eyes sneered again. Good. Meant she wouldn't be rubbing up against him like a bitch on heat.

"Good day, my name is Pis- Private First Class Eric Potter, 4th Squad of 1st Platoon, 3rd Battalion. I will be one of your liaison officers for the duration of our stay here. Any questions?"

"Yeah. Why the hell is a Private a liaison officer?" Because we're not allowed to tell you jackshit without prior authorisation, so he who doesn't know can't tell. But Piston was a fast thinker, and smart. He remembered his orders.

"Unfortunately, all other Officers are indisposed right now; most landing or debriefing."

"That guy's a Sergeant, though." That bitchy brunette pointed a finger at the Sarge; knew her chevrons then.

Almost mockingly, Piston chuckled and spoke "Madam, I have seen that man disable and disarm 6 men in as many seconds; without breaking a bone. On him, or the assailants. Do you really think he does not deserve some food after fighting off the Savages?" Okay, bad move. Instantly, the 20 or so Scientists were in uproar, shouting various insults at the Rifle, defending the Na'vi.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Sarge had that effect on people. He pushed past Piston and glared dead into the eyes of the ringleader; an Indian Scientist. They backed off.

"Look here; if you ever treat **any** of my men like that again, I will personally break you in half, I swear by almighty God and his many saints." Then he was gone, but not before flashing an understanding nod at Piston. Civilians were hard to handle. They were offended by the harsh truths which kept Soldiers alive; kept them from going insane.

"Okay, look. We're here. We're not here to fight the Na'vi, but we will if we have to. We need you guys to talk to the Na'vi prisoners and try and tell them something is coming" He used the General's words for the next bit "Something so terrible if destroys worlds. It is the darkness which douses light; it is the Wolf which steals the children. It is harsh, it is emotionless, and it won't stop."

"What?"

"That's classified. Because if you knew, every last one of you would be taking the first ship out of here."

__

_Colonel Greyson hefted his XMX with practiced expertise_. _It was natural to him, as he looked at the Complex door. They had descended about 40 steps into the earth, and now they were met by a giant, steel door, with a codelock to the side._

"_Techy, ge' in 'ere."_

_Seconds pasted; the techy linked up his neural decipherer, and broke the code within 45 seconds. The door popped open, with Private Sargeant leading the way. Bullets pinged off the door, and the Private came rushing back._

"_Suggest RXKs, Sir."_

"_Do I', lad."_

_Quickly, Sargeant pulled the tiny, penny-sized object off his belt, tapped it 3 times and then threw it into the corridor._

_As one, the platoon's ears were deafened by a neural-link to Greyson. A shockwave hit them, but they had spread their legs and hunched their shoulders._

"_Okay, laddies. Tim' fer tha' crunch."_

_There was no hesitation this time. Sargeant filed into the blackened corridor, with Greyson and the Company following him. At the back, a Spanish Scientist cursed in his native language. The once-shining metal plates had been utterly discoloured and scorched by the was a crossroads; one went left, to an eagerly blackened corridor decorated with incinerated husks. The right? The same. But directly infront of them was a highly similar door to the first._

"_Alrigh', Demar, tak' _4th _through _7th _and clear th' righ'. Henrik, 8 through 10, the lef'. First through to 3__rd__, with me. An' mak' sur' Alucardo's with us."_

_So it began. 1st Lieutenant Demar took his squads, Major Henrik took his. Colonel Greyson watched sceptically as the Techy broke the lock. This time, it took easily 5 minutes. Gunfire began to echoe through the complex._

"_What am I here for, anyway, Matt?" Alucardo queried, seemingly unaffected by the Gunfire._

"_Sneaky suspicions we go' a clonin' program goin' on in 'ere. If I' is, I wan' ye to tell us 'ow to use it to our advantag'." His tone as a Colonel was different to that as a General. He was clean shaven, constantly glaring and constantly thinking._

_The door burst open, with Private Sargeant, Colonel Greyson and Rodrigo Alucardo following in. It was a darkened room, but a damned big one. The floor panels were black, as were the roof and wall panels. But all around them, with large gaps inbetween, were massive tanks of fluid. They would have a terminal beside it, and a massive machine, connected to both tank and terminal by dozens of pipes and wires. _

_Barely a few feet infront of them, a Chinese Scientist was attempting to burn some documents. Sargeant took him in the head with a single shot. Alucardo picked up the documents and began to study them._

"_Greyson. You go clear the complex...Give me an hour or two..." Already, the Geneticist was embroiled in the papers._

_There was 40 Chinese Soldiers in the complex. It was a simple seek and destroy mission, but they fought like dogs. Lost 15 men. It took 3 hours, and by that time, Alucardo had read the notes,and was virtually bouncing with excitement._

"_Greyson, look, look, look. This chambers..." He dragged the Colonel over to the nearest one. "...are perfect for growing human beings. They supply nutrients, mimic the conditions of the womb perfectly! BUT! They are uninhabited! The Chinese hadn't quite gotten round to actually growing anything in them! I've been looking for one of these facilities most of my adult life!"_

"_Wha' ye sayin', Rodge?"_

"_I can grow you super-soldiers..."_

_Greyson maintained his cold, cautious expression._

"_How?"_

"_I simply implant a strand of DNA into the cells which encourages the unused DNA for, say, heightened adrenal control to become active. And I've mastered the way Cells decay to an art form! I could get you grown Super-Soldiers in 5 years, who will leave to 150!"_

_That brought on a grin from the Colonel._

"_You'll 'ave to leave th' Av'tar Projec'."_

_Rodrigo chuckled, cynically._

"_Pah! Those commercial sell-outs? I've done all the base-coding for Human DNA, they don't need or want me anymore. This..This is something special.." He touched the tank, lovingly._

"_Finally...All those specimens who died in inadequate growth tanks...And here is the perfect chance..."_

"_One condition, Rodge."_

_Alucardo tweaked an eyebrow, but maintained his smile._

"_Yes?"_

"_You us' the DNA from Soldiers." _

_He nodded._

____

Jake was bond in a quite technological chair. Around him were cables, tightened, and designed to hold up bridges...City bridges. By themselves. It was in the Command Center, a place he found eerily familiar. Even more familiar was the gruff General staring at him. He was tall, but a 10 foot Na'vi sitting down meant they were just about on eye level. Imposing, scarred and feral, he didn't look like a General. However, the man to his left did. Average height and build. Stern. Clean-shaven. Immaculately dressed.

It was he who spoke.

"Jake Sully, correct?"

"Yes."

"Betrayed the RDA Corporation, specifically SecFor, and joined the Na'vi people? Where's your human body, Jake?"

"It has gone to be with Eywa."

That prompted a shrug from the man. The General snorted, derisively.

"Alright. We're not here to fight you. We're not here to get some revenge on the Na'vi. We're here to save your world."

Jake laughed. Oh, so the Sky People had come back to save them? From what?

"I left your race because they lied and took what was not there's. Do you expect me to believe you now."

"Yes. Because if you don't, we will die here." It was said with conviction, and the General stepped forward.

"Look, lad. I can understan' ye no' trustin' us, so I've arrange' alittl' demonstratio'."

With great effort, two men turned Jake's chair around so he could see out of the Command Center's windows. In a neat line, outside of the camp, there was 20 Diggers; the things that had ransacked his planet 16 months ago.

With a muttered order, there was a beep...

And then the diggers detonated in spectacular fashion, the fuel cells bursting into flames. They were far enough away from the Jungle to be no threat.

With his own strength, Greyson turned Jake back around.

"Look, mat'. We're not 'ere fer yer friend's, or yer trees. We're 'ere t'ge' back at tha' bastar's who destroye' my country, and to preven' th' same 'appening to Earth afta' th' Roaches ar' done with ye."


	5. Vengeance Drives Men

**A/N:Glad I could get another Chapter up so soon! Thanks for the Reviews, guys, keep 'em coming! This chapter finally informs you why the UN are here. It'll speed up next chapter, so bear with me!**

_______

Forget what you think you know. Every last ounce of it is wrong. You are not special, you are not worth anything; you are cannon fodder. You will either die a nobody, live a nobody, or make something of yourself, through sheer hard work and effort. That is the Rifles.  
Piston remembered those words. Most of all, he remembered thinking 'I'll make something of myself'. These days, though? Was seeming less and less likely. But he didn't mind all that much. There was a certain, low-life pride in dying a nobodyHe sat in the old Avatar-Program capsule...place. He was not some square; he was proud of being a simple grunt. Damn proud.

Across from him, was that damned woman. She was called Emily, and he really wasn't too fond of her. So when she came looking for a mindless grunt to help her with the heavy lifting, guess who the Sarge assigned? Unfortunately, now she was asking him to give Military Jargon. Look, he'd already pulled a dozen vines as thick as your arm off seats, capsules and whatnot, and he really wasn't in the mood to be drilled by some feisty square with an attitude problem!

"What does ASAP mean?" She asked him, noting on her clipboard. Anal Square Annoying Piston? No, he couldn't say that. He wasn't that stupid.

"Anal Scientists Annoying Potter?"

Oh, the look she gave him. In his combat vest and camouflage trousers, it was obvious he was muscular; not for a Rifle, but still. Yet she looked at him like a little girl.

"Okay, As Soon As Possible."

She grumbled under her breath, and went back to writing. For the first time, Piston wondered what the hell she did.

"What do you do, anyway?" Standing up, he went over to an Avatar capsule and tapped the rusting metal. It let out a solid thud, which almost amused him.

"I was a Neurotechnician. I made sure the capsules linked up the right people to the right Avatars." She looked up from the paper and sneered.

"I'm sorry, a Neurotechnician is-" He cut her off, glaring at her.

"An analyst of the Nerve System. Don't patronise me."

Okay, that brought a surprise. She figured he was just an annoying grunt.

"Erm...What's a Rifleman?"

That brought a lowered glare down upon her.

"A Rifleman is a Light-Infantry Soldier, designed to traverse ground on foot,with maximum stealth and minimal equipment. They are usually armed with Assault Rifles. Perfect for jungle-terrain."

"And what were the men from SecFor?"

"Dog-soldiers. Men who were classified either too brutal or too stupid, so the Army let them go. Minus Quaritch, of course, but he's the exception." Why was he telling her all this? He'd asked the Sarge these very questions only a few days ago, but still!

"What's so special about you guys?" She wasn't writing anymore. Just asking.

"We're the General's personal Battalion. He was a Colonel with us; that means a lot to some Officers." As he told her this, Piston was carefully examining the capsule, looking over the panels and buttons.

"And who is he?"

That brought an amused chuckle.

"General Greyson is the toughest, most hardassed man the UN has ever had the privilege of training. Lost his edge during the British Campaign, though."

"British Campaign?"

Piston looked her dead in the eyes, shocked. She didn't know? Oh god. He took a deep breath in, and begun.

"6 years ago, 50 meteors hit England. Only about the size of one of these capsules. But from them spewed insects. Well, I say that. They were like men, in the way they had a torso, legs and head. Roughly our size too. But they had claws instead of arms. Long stilts instead of legs. Tentacles embroidered with suction pods all over their face. Only one came out of each rock, and it was all it took. They escaped; starting eating children. Grew big in sewers, spawned. Their children were like...Giant centipedes, but with lots of talons, and claws, and teeth, about the size of buses. Worst thing was? They grew bigger as they ate. And, before we knew it, the things were all over us. Greyson had just subjugated China, and he flew over with most of the Army. But there were too many. London and Manchester fell, with 5 Corps, that's 40,000 men in a Corp. Stopped them at Cardiff, but the things they saw..." He shook his head. "It broke the General, they say. Only Jon Demar wasn't affected; and that's because he was born without a heart, they say. Had no choice, they realised. Firebombed England. All of it. An entire island nation reduced to ashes. Took 3 months of constant pounding from every single bomber we had; sub-atomic nukes, incendiaries that effected 500 miles, you name it. At the end, the only English, Welsh and Scots alive were those serving in the Military, or living abroad. I'm English. Born in York, raised in York, went abroad to study advanced astro-physics at MIT..." Piston shook his head, clearly struck by guilt. "I joined the Rifles. Because..." He was going to tell her what he shouldn't, because she wasn't looking at him with hate anymore, but shock, pain and pity. "Because another meteor shower exactly like that is coming. 30 of the gits; all landing on this landmass. And they'll eat this Planet. UN wants us to turn it into a Victory. Because they have a theory; that the Roaches eat a planet from the inside out, multiply their Royal Caste and then detonate the Planet; meteors fly out at around the speed of light. Guess what planet these lovely little things will be hitting if Pandora goes up?" He said it cynically, and rightly so.

"Earth...But, why are you here? It sounds like a suicide mission."

"Don't you get it? It is."

__

Jake was awe-struck by the footage he had just seen...It had been of an entire city, encompassed by those..things. They ate everything; metal, people, plants, even soil, then crapped it out their behinds for the workers to drag off to the Royals. Or so the Colonel said. But he believed him. You couldn't fake this. You just couldn't.

"So, you're here to fight those things? Why?" Jake's glare was no less daunting in a bound chair. Greyson dipped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Tears were welling up in those eyes. Eyes that had seen millions die, cities burn, and children tortured without shedding a year.. Demar answered.

"We want revenge. We want to save your world. And our's."

With the usual tact, Demar explained the theory revolving around how the Roaches spread through the Galaxy. It was brutal and succinct.

"This sounds an awful lot like a Suicide mission..." A thought passed through Jake's head. Maybe these were the guys you talked about in Basic. The Heroes. The bunch of heroic soldiers who traversed great distances to save planets against impossible odds? No. Humans weren't like that. And those people didn't exist.

"So what? You're gonna wait until they arrive and then decimate the Planet from orbit?"

Demar chuckled, standing infront of the General to try and hide his shame. It was an awkward chuckle, even for him.

"What do you think this is? A science-fiction novel? We can barely transport Rhino Tanks over here, let alone heavy ordnance. No. We have to beat them on the ground..." Demar looked up, dead into Jake's golden eyes. "...And you're our ticket to winning." Greyson seemed to grasp himself once more, and straightened himself.

He turned to stare at Jake.

"Lad, I 'ave no wish to see wha' 'appene' to my 'omeland 'appen 'ere. I promis' you, from the bottom o' me 'eart. I will figh' to tha' las' breath."

He didn't know why, but Jake really thought he would. He had that same look in his battle-scarred eyes that Eytucan had had when he prepared to face The Dragon Gunship with nothing but a bow. It was a last gasp attempt to save something that they knew would probably be destroyed.

"Jake Sully. Every single man we've brought here does not care about the Unobtanium. They don't want to stay, or colonise, or wipe out your Race. They're here, because they believe that, across those stars, there's a Planet called Earth. And it's good. And it's worth fighting for. "

Jake made a decision that could very well curse his entire people to slavery, death or worse. Or it could save them

"Alright."

__

The 6 other Na'vi prisoners eyed the tiny human, without a breath mask, with a mix of awe and disgust. Together with Jake Sully and the human, they obediently trotted through the Pandoran Bush. They had been given back their weapons, but the human seemed perfectly at ease. Well, he was. He would hear them moving and be able to respond in 1.2878 seconds. Kill them; knife through the oesophagus, second one down with a kick to the groin, knife into the frontal lobe. Death; instantaneous. Simple as that.

Jake began talking to Longfang as they crossed a thick, luminous tree trunk across a ravine.

"You're not human, are you?" He said, as he observed Longfang prancing across it with perfect balance.

"You guessed? I was, for alittle while. I can see why you gave it up." The Na'vi followed as Jake led the way deeper into the forest.

"I didn't give it up. I had my legs taken from me in some dumb war." They moved into a simple valley, with trees hanging everywhere.

"Whatever you say. But why did you give up the chance to get your legs back?" The young man replied, even as he scrambled up a thick tree trunk.

"How do you know all this?"

He laughed.

"Don't deflect the question."

"Well, I suppose I was a Na'vi at heart. I didn't want to see all this...lost."

A smirk spread across Longfang's face, causing him to seem very strange to the Na'vi.

"I can understand. You remember Wolves, don't you?"

"Yeah, I saw the pictures."

"Well, Paps said I was always a Wolf at heart. That's why..." With stunning speed, Longfang produced his knife, dropped to the floor, and cut a nick in his finger. The Na'vi pulled weapons, but lowered them once they saw a shape emerge from the bush.

"A...A Nantang? So you're the Runner?" Jake stated, as amazed as the rest of them.

"Nantang? Nah, he's a Wolf to the core. Loki, I've called him."

The other Na'vi stepped closer, but Loki growled and moved away, putting Longfang between him and them.

"He thinks you'll protect him." Jake stated, to which Longfang's response was unusually sharp.

"I will."

"Let's just get going, shall we?"


	6. The Tide

_...Heroes are often found in the most unlikely of places..._

**A/N: **Don't worry, Piston will get important soon enough. Another chapter, steadily getting longer. Merry Christmas, and please review!

* * *

Why was she doing this? This wasn't right. He was meant to be at his squad's table, enjoying chow and laughing with them. He was a squaddie, now! Enjoy that companionship, his head said. Chibe on about Shaka's size, tease the Jacque's about his accent, laugh at Yu-Sin's impressions; get laughed at equally. But don't sit over here, talking to some science lass...It was bad for you, it was bad for here, and it made you look like an arse. But Piston couldn't help it. The tiny brain in his groin wouldn't let him, for obvious reasons. So, he was sitting at the Square's table. Laughing at they jokes, enjoying chow with them.

"So, Private, where are you from?"

Why the fuck did they always ask that question? Couldn't they just assume 'Earth' and move on? Yeah, he would be leaving pretty soon. As in, now. Emily, the square who'd dragged him over here, tensed and grimaced for him. Still with a smile on his face, Piston gripped his mess tin and said, politely.

"England."

Then he left, his army boots clattering precariously over the floor as he looked over towards the Squad. There was his space from yesterday. But the way all their eyes turned on him; it was scary. Before he even got there, Sarge stood up and asked "Why were you over there?"

Piston hesitated, wanting to tell the truth, but knew he'd be called out on it.

"I'm a lia-"

"Bullshit. It's latrine duty. Real reason."

Not much for it, now.

"Got a thing for that Emily one."

The reaction was instantaneous. Sarge grinned, a rare occurence if there ever was one, and nodded; the Squad laughed, and began shooting cat calls at him, varying from 'Lover-boy' to the much louder 'Hey! Square! Pist over here wants you in his bunk, 1900 hours, sharp!' Sarge was never particularly subtle. Emily turned, went red, stared at Eric's back for a second, before returning to her meal. He, on the other hand, took the insults and jibes on the cheek, sat down, and got back to eating. Couldn't look her in the face, though.

"I cannot fault your choices, mon ami." Jacques said, turning towards Emily and licking his lips. Cheeky sod, Jacques. Blonde, short hair, spindly, devious like a Fox; but fast and the best translator in the Squad. To assert his rights, Piston dealt a punch to his arm, from which Jacques yelped. Well, that was hilarious, so Piston was back in and laughing. Enjoying the useless slop. After a few minutes of this, Sarge turned serious.

"Alright, boys. We got a combat mission; being dropped into the Bush, near a thing called 'The Tree of Souls'. Our job is to get in there, scout out a defensive position, hail HQ, then bug out. No questions, no fucking heroics. From what the Guv says, we shouldn't have any trouble with the Smurfs, but you never know. Sack time for 2 hours after mess, then get your arses into the Utility sheds and suit up.." There was a communal nod. Things went FUBAR all too quickly these days, even Piston knew that. But now they knew their duties, they could get to the business of discussing the perks of all the female Squares.

Mess continued, with the same joviality that would come to define the Rifles. The other squads were on similar missions; the rest of the Company as well as the 5th had landed, so the base was now at max capacity. 1800 Men, along with their assorted tanks and aircraft, were topside, orbiting on the other side of the planet to avoid the meteor shower.

These were the men of the UN Expeditionary Force 'Forlorn Hope'.

Sarge slapped his metal spoon into the tin.

"Alright, lads, I'm off to read a book. Utility Sheds in 120 minutes; no fucking excuses." With that, he picked up the tin and marched smartly from the hall, a smirk on his face.

Banks looked around, his eyebrow creasing up in utter surprise.

"Sarge can read?"

They chuckled, and finished their meals quickly. Don't want to waste any sack time. As usual, Piston found himself the last around the table; he just wasn't as accustomed to shovelling your food down at a moment's notice. But he was consummate going at it, as Emily came and sat across from him. Now, having vegetable pulp dripping from your upper lip isn't exactly the best way to get a girl to like you. Lucky, that, since she was fuming.

"What did you tell them?" She asked, calmly, coldly, like a viper hissing before it struck. Piston swallowed and wiped his mouth, keeping eye contact with her.

"I told them I had a thing for you."

"And do you?"

It was his turn to lean forward, glaring at her, and speaking through gritted teeth

"What if I do? I'll be dead in a few weeks, anyway. You can forget me." He said it. The truth that lay between them. He was going to be dead soon. They all knew it. Well, maybe she didn't, as was obvious by the fact she still stared at him coldly.

"You'll beat them. You'll have the Na'vi on your side. You bea-."

"Have you ever heard of the term 'Pyrrhic victory?'

"...Yes."

"Then you'll know what I mean. Not a single man who has come with us is expecting to live. Greyson and Demar had state funerals on embarkation. My family buried my old things. Noone." That broke her, he thought. She leaned back. Eyes softened, like they did.

"You expect me to cry for you?"

That was harsh. That stung. Without a thought, he stood up. His messtin was empty anyway.

"I have a thing for you. You're smart, you're beautiful and you treat me like a person. Doesn't mean you have to do anything about it." He was off. The conversation had been in a pretty much abandoned hall; everyone else had left. But he didn't hear his own boots taping against the floor. He turned left, heading into the maze of corridors that was the Hell's Gate. And who should grab him and turn him around?

She kissed him, and he kissed back. They moved to her quarters, and reminded each other that they were still alive, human, and energetic.

Longfang had to say one thing about the Na'vi; they knew how to recover. He strode into the base of the hometree; above him, the branches of the massive sapling were entwined with that of it's dead forebearer, accelerating it's growth immensely. From nowhere, more of the Na'vi people appeared. They looked with intense relief at their members, and Jake rushed to meet them, being the center of their attention. A tall, proud, beauty emerged and embraced him with genuine love. Longfang was left, like so many times in the schoolyard, alone and abandoned.

For several minutes, Jake and the beauty argued fiercely, making gestures at Longfang and towards Hell's Gate.

"The Sky People are here to help us."

"What? How do you know?"

"They told me. They've shown me what will happen if we do not help them."

"How can you believe such lies?"

"I've seen them. They have brought no mining equipment. Max and Norm say they could have killed us awhile ago."

"They lie! They are liar, they cannot be trusted!"

"I was once one of them...Trust me, Neytiri."

That had ended it. But she still needed answers. Glaring at Longfang, she stormed up to him, looking down at him like an insect.

"What is he doing here?" It was a hiss.

Longfang bowed, elaborately, grinning the grin of a dead man. He was unique. For he knew no fear. Not in the way Jake did; saw fear and chose to be brave. Longfang was clinically impossible of feeling fear.

In English, Longfang proclaimed.

"Hello, my name is Longfang and I'll be your resident maniac for the Current War."

With speed and grace that matched an ikran, Longfang dodged around her. It quickly became obvious that there was a lot of the Na'vi, but Longfang just grinned, stepping between the humanoids until he was looking up at Jake once more.

"Well, Jake. Looks like we've got some work to do." He tapped his ear, quizzically.

"Go and gather your clans. Every last one. From the furthest Warrior to the nearest Elder." With a flourish, Longfang ran up a nearby tree branch and squatted on it, luminscent lights dazzling the viewers with the sudden burst of colour.

"Look. For all those who understand English; translate." A peculiar sight appeared as Longfang looked down at them. For the first time; he really looked at them. They were primitive; wearing little clothing, beads, leaves, that sort of paraphenalia. But they were beautiful...Graceful blue bodies stood tall and proud. Carrying themselves like they were one with the Planet. From what the Scientists had deciphered; they essentially were.

"I know that my Race has done much to anger you. I know that I seem like the physical manifestation of that greed. That heartlessness. But we're not here for the Ore. We're here to protect our families; like you did. We're here to fight with heart and soul; with gun and blade, with tooth and nail. Because really?" With a leap that would make Na'vi gasp with amazement, he sprang to the branch above.

"We're all dead men." He shrugged. Holding up 3 fingers, he seemed perfectly at ease with the next statement "We have 3 months. As a statement of the Sky People's faith, here I am. Your hostage. The Warleader's son. Teach me, beat me, kill me. It matters little. As long as you guys cooperate with my father, it's fine with me. But I'll give you alittle show of what you're facing." With the finesse that was becoming characteristic of him, Longfang threw a small metal cube up into the air, dropping gracefully to the forest floor. Quiet, and then light shone, and a massive creature spawned from the cube. The Na'vi screamed at this beast from the abyss! 12 feet tall, with most of it's body slithering along the ground, with great scything talons. Only Jake noticed that it did not move; merely rotated. Neytiri was the next to realise, and slowly the Omaticaya turned.

"This" Longfang spoke, before dropping from the branch. "is a Jormungadr. The mainstay of the Roach." He allowed sometime for his words to be translated. To him, it merely resembled a great centipede with claws, great gaping jaws. Fighting them had changed that perception. They could keep going with a head; fought through the greatest injuries, and never stopped coming – unless you knew how to pinch their one weakness.

"He's virtually invulnerable. One weak spot." The Wolfman drew his combat knife and passed it through the center of the rearing Jormungadr's chest. "5th segment down. It's brain. One decent arrow, spear or shot there, and it's done."

The Na'vi were utterly awed by this great monstrosity. The children were kept behind terrified parents; but Jake and Neytiri examined it closely.

"You can teach us how to fight these?"

That grin again.

"I can teach you how to kill them." Snorting, the hologram dissipated into the air, and the Na'vi sighed with relief. Looking in their eyes, that mix of apprehension and terror, Longfang knew they believed him; simply because it was too risky not to. Such was life. Now he saw them...Really saw them. Not a single one hid themselves, they hid others. He saw the honour that the ancient Indians of the Plains must've had. The tenacity of the Vikings; who quivered together with cows and pigs in the cold; the ferocity of the Celts, who feared no being; living or otherwise. From that moment forward, Longfang knew that he was among warriors.

Speaking the only Na'vi he knew, Longfang echoed "I see you."

Jake smiled.

***  
"WHAT?" Just looking at the thing made Longfang want to kill it. It had 6 legs, which was normal, but other then that it looked like a cross between a Horse and a Rhinoceroes.

"I want to see if you can ride it without the braid." Jake gestured at his long, flowing braid of hair – a Neural uplink, as Longfang had quickly deciphered. Bad thing about the request of mounting the Direhorse was it's back reached his eyeline.

But he wasn't the kind of guy to refuse.

Trying, he quickly discovered two things;

1) Pandoran Mud tastes extremely dissimiliar to Terran mud.

2) Direhorse's do not like humans.

Well, they accepted that Longfang wouldn't be going through the same interesting learning process Jake had. Many were still incredibly suspicious of him, even after 2 days of him indulging in their customs, and hunting alongside them with Loki. Neytiri had been impressed at how he had waited, still for 3 hours, amongst Hammerhead Titanotheres, for a single strike at a Calf's underbelly; not a movement, not a sound. To him, it was just Sniper Training all over again.

So, they agreed to let **him **teach _them._ All of them were shocked when he suggested it.

But he knew how to kill. These people, proud and noble they were, but they hunted; instead of killing. Longfang had been raised to do it.

It was the morning of the 3rd day. Jake had cleared an area, and drawn his knife. Around the two, about two dozen hunters had gathered. Neytiri and Mo'at stood to the side, still sceptical of the Sky Nantang.

"Okay. Neytiri. Translate." Longfang said, nodding. He had removed his combat vest, and drawn his combat knife. Jake had drawn his hunting knife.

"A Jormungadr is stronger then you. It's bigger, tougher and bred for War. So what's your advantage?" He held his arms out wide, his pale skin sweating in the heat. Scars dotted his perfect torso, and he nodded at Jake.

"Attack me."

Jake went in for a single, powerful strike. Any human would have died; knife through the skull. Longfang, on the other hand, dodged to the left as the knife was barely a few centimeters from his eye, stuck out his foot, brought the knife up and dragged the flat of it against Jake's stomach, before hitting him hard on the back with the pommel.

Jake toppled, to the collective astonishment and chagrin of the Na'vi. But they were getting used to it.

"But we have three advantages; we are fast. We are fierce. And we are smart." There was no amused expression on his face, nor some stark grin. It was a look of concentration and focus.

"I will teach you how to kill these things with knifes, hands, arrows, and their own scythes. Because while everyone was in cryo, guess who was awake, studying and observing these things?"


	7. The Wolf Bares His Fangs

**A/N: **Good news. I write this after having an incredibly pleasant Christmas, and having finally reacquired my style. For once, I truly enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy reading it; because if you don't, the Puppies will be sad ;( Reviews, please!

* * *

_...The turning of the tide often begins with the recovery of a single man..._

Piston stepped cautiously, but he still killed something. It honestly seemed like everything was alive. Hefting his rifle was a natural maneuver, but this? Wasn't on. About to take another step, the Na'vi Chief ('Turncoat' to the higher-ups) pushed him back, muttering something that sounded like "scown". Whatever that meant was beyond him, but the giant blue humanoid knelt down, and picked up something that looked like a cross between a rattlesnake and a tropical bird; which had been nuked with steroids most of it's life. He threw it aside and beckoned him forward. Well, what could that have done to him? He was wearing carbon-steel boots. Weren't exactly like a fang would go through steel. Saying that, something told Piston that it could, it would, and if it weren't for that Na'vi lad, he'd be on the floor wishing he'd left more to Sarge in his last will and testament. Making a mental note to gift the loving NCO with his Music Data file (for which he had no use for any longer- Emily had decent taste.), the young Soldier carried on along the path. Jake Sully, that was his name, had an earpiece in, and so the Sarge spoke, sub-vocalised really (which is speaking incredibly quietly).

"What in the name of my mother's hairy arse are we looking for?" It was a classically polite question from the Sarge, but you didn't expect brusqueness from him. Oh no, he was the epitomy of eloquence. The response?

"Shut up. They'll hear you."

None of the squaddies doubted him. To Piston's left, Shaka, Froggy and Gunpowder were spread out across the valley floor, looking very much like they'd been given latrines to clean. Shaka grumbled, which came over the Vox as a thin line of Zulu curses, Froggy occasionally cursed loudly in French, only to be silenced by the death glare from his loving NCO – Gunpowder just stared at the trees with the look of a disappointed father. In his opinion, very little was worthwhile unless it was on fire.

The others were stoic; before drop, Sarge had told Cossack that if he heard a single word of that slobber he called Russian he would precisely demonstrate how to castrate a man with a rusty spoon; Chats had his mouth glued shut by the Company – he was told to murmur really loudly into the Vox if he saw anything. Bottom, Cymru and Techs were far too sensible to talk on combat missions, so they were left without threat or physical restraint.

But they all agreed – there would be no malicious bullying of the Na'vi guides. Merely well-mannered harassment.

Well-exercised by Piston as he 'accidentally' placed his foot 2 foot up in the air to squash Jake Sully's tail against the ground. The tip sprawled helplessly as the Na'vi Chief bucked back violently. Wearing the face of a man falsely accused, Piston returned his glare with a shake of the head and a tutting

"Sorry mate."

Doubtlessly they shouldn't be doing it, but who cared? The Na'vi were here to guide them, through a terrain they didn't know; yes. But they were 10 feet tall and blue! No matter how mature one grey, any squaddie took a chance to mess with their heads alittle.

Another few seconds, and they were moving again. The other Na'vi scout was far off to the right, and was suffering similar harassment from Techs. Last night, the merry squad had drawn straws to see who would be standing behind the Na'vi guides. Techs and Piston had drawn the short straws, but only metaphorically. Very rarely did you have this much fun on patrol.

Jake held up a hand, sharply, as did the other Na'vi scout.

"Stop your childish pranks and be battle-ready."

Rifles change. Yes, they're the most boisterous louts when they think they're safe – occasionally they even clown around when they're not. But tell them to get their shit wired, and they do. Expressions changed. Assault Rifles came up to shoulders, pointing at the tiniest movement, as if a miniscule seed dropping upon the wrong leaf would end the world and all it's inhabitants as they knew it.

Piston checked the trees, cautiously, as Jake sniffed the air. With catlike grace, but aching slowness, he unslung his bow and knocked an arrow.

"Palulukan..." The second Na'vi muttered, under his breath, as he echoed Jake in his movements. Both of their eyes were pinned upon a batch of foliage about 50 yards ahead of them.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Sarge snarled, his assault rifle beading on the mismatch of alien plants which the Na'vi eyed so threateningly.

"Thanator..."

Rifles change. When they hear that they've just walked into the Pandoran equivalent of a lion, crossed with an armadillo, crossed with a bull-elephant with a bad attitude, their faces drop. The 'oh shit' expression. On most people, this can typically last anywhere between 5 seconds to 5 weeks. Not on these boys. Not even on Piston. It was 3 seconds, flat, and then they were working.

"Left Wing, you got eyes on the target?" The green confirmation lights flashed on Sarge's HUD, informing him Shaka and his cronies had their acts together. Jake eyed the foliage as he did so, catching the tiniest of movement. It knew they were there.

"Alright, Gunpowder, climb that tree and get your smokies out; on my word, send that cat some choking hazards. Froggy, advance with your rifle levelled, and do not fire until my mark – Shaka, the moment that thing springs I want shotgun rounds bouncing off it, or through it." The lights flashed again, and the NCO's attention switched like lightning, the matter settled – he had utter confidence in his troops.

"Right Wing, that goes for you too, Blueberry; I want you to arc from behind those trees and flush him out. When Gunpowder throws the smokies, I want you to pump more ammo in that bush then the Good God blessed us with at Novgorod." Again, those HUD lights flashed. This was standard procedure to them; like field-stripping a rifle, just far more likely to get you killed, less likely to get you killed in an embarassing manner. The Na'vi turned, snorted with derision, and nodded.

_Yeah, yeah, whatever, Bluebell _Piston thought, cynically.

"What about me and Smurf-lover here?" The newest member of their squad asked. Sarge was about 10 paces away, so both Jake and Piston could see that grin on his face, and collectively shudder.

"I'm the Hunter. You're the meat on a stick. Go stand about 20 paces infront, and run on my word."

Jake looked at Piston, and looked like he was about to make an incredibly intelligent and sarcastic comment.

"He doesn't like you very much, does he?

"No shit, sherlock..." Piston murmured, assault rifle slung onto his torso. Somehow, he didn't think Jake would be the one getting eaten if anyone did. Somehow, he thought that today would be his last day; and he sure as fuck wasn't giving Sarge his Music Datafile.

Step by step, the 20 paces seemed like far too few. When you think about it, something the size of a Thanator could probably leap that...Piston looked at Jake, and he had that look in his eye. That look that said he didn't enjoy it, but he knew it had to be done. Doubtlessly, PFC Eric Potter was dead meat if a bloody 10 foot superman wasn't too keen on this!

"Alright, Gun. Let him have it! Right Wing; get flushing!" The command came all too soon for Piston, as he had only just turned, and prepared to run so fast a Bird of Prey would have trouble eye-balling him

Three tiny cannisters popped into the brush, pumping out enormous quantities of thick black smoke that reminded the Squaddies of the Unobtanium Plants back home, even as several bursts of fire and a 6 foot arrow followed. Erupting like a great Volcano from some altogether-too-realistic disaster film, the terrifying beast sprang up from out of the bushes. Colossal would be an understatement. Fierce would be a worse one; it looked truly horrific, with dark blue frills, and a great gaping mouth for ripping to pieces Na'vi, Viperwolves and young Riflemen who could't run very fast. For a split second, it eyed Jake and Piston, just registering them. It lasted a second.... a poised second upon the razor sharp edge of reality....

Sarge broke it; a hammer piercing the stained glass window.

"RUN, YOU FUCKS!"

But Piston had turned his head to eye the Beast, so his body didn't need telling twice. Jake pounced past him; the Thanator pounced upwards, going for the smaller, slower Human. As he saw the shadow hovering over the ground infront, Piston realised he'd broken his datafile in transit. Well, didn't matter now...About to discover the great mysteries of life!

Shaka was a savior. Had he not been a brilliant eye with a shotgun; had he not had reflexes like an Eagle, Piston, PFC Eric Potter, would have died that day. Luckily, he had both. The pellets slammed the monster sidewise into a thick tree trunk, shattering wood with the sheer force of it. It wasn't dead though.

"FROGGY! Your queue!" Without a second thought, the Frenchman started shooting at Piston's would-be killer's head, even as it recovered and started once again after the rapidly-escaping Piston. Unfortunately, it didn't quite have the intelligence to see Sarge, with his trademark single-shot Rifle, positioned like a hawk in mid-air, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Nor did it see Jake Sully, arrow upon his massive warbow, pulled to the ear, eyeing a very specific part of the Thanator's anatomy.

Arrow and bullet flew.

The shot missed, impacting fiercely into the beast's armour plate; though taking it clean off with the sheer power of the shot. The Thanator's jaws snapped a few centimetres behind Piston.

The arrow didn't miss. Almost as if it had hit a stone cliff, the arrow thudded into the eye of the Thanator, and stopped it dead. No other words were necessary. Taking several inches of plant life with it, it collapsed to the ground.

To explain Piston's feelings and that point would involve a great deal of profane language, but they mostly involved comments on the timing of his companions, and the pinpoint speed of his legs.

"Nice take, boys. Damn good shot, Jake." First name? He liked the guy.

"WOOOHOOO! I am invincible! Can you see the Piston? No, no, you can't!" The young Private was positively overjoyed, punching the air and doing a dance which greatly resembled a combination of mad flailing and incontinence. Without reservation, he strode up to Jake Sully and threw his arms around him. Though they were armour-plated, the gesture was understood.

"THANK YOU, MY BIG-BLUE HERO!" Those were his words; Shaka and Froggy grinned at the future jibes to come. Sarge was walking up to him aswell, though, a thoughtful expression emblazoned upon his daunting features.

"No need, it was nothing. It was an honour." Jake explained, with modesty. The other Na'vi, Ga'li, was standing, propped upon his warbow, open-eyed and astonished. Not at Jake, but at the efficiency of the Sky Men. The young one had taken his duty with honour, and performed it admirably. All the others had completed their assigned tasks with great conviction and spirit; only the man known as 'Sarge' had failed his task – shooting a moving Thanator in it's eye at 30 paces. Very few Na'vi marksman could hope to have even hit it anywhere; except Jakesully – and he had been taught by Neytiri.

Sarge walked up to Jake, his head doing a similar action as it ascended to look him in the eye. When he spoke, there was a flicker of a grin to him.

"Bad news, big blue."

"What?"

"I think you just earnt my respect."

"Good news, Sergeant."

"What?"

"We just found who we were looking for."

Jake's blue hand pointed off to a few feet behind the Thanator's original hiding place, where a few Na'vi stood, looking quizically at The Sky People.

"The People of The Eastern Sea."

__

"I dinnae say this alo'."

"Yes you do."

"...Bu' I thin' we may jus' stan' a chanc'."

"With all due respect, Sir, you said that at Novgorod, you said that in Manchuria, and you uttered those sweet words at Cardiff." Demar closed the datapad with a flick of his worn wrist, and sat even straighter then usual in his stiff seat which had become his habitat upon Pandora. "But, Sir, I think you may be wrong this time."

"Pah! Rubbish, laddy. We'll com' oota this alrigh'. 'Ead up." Greyson gruffly replied, slouched in his chair on the other side of the desk, musing over a cigar.

Okay, this was becoming a liability. Demar refused to see his best friend, a man who's mind was once deadly keen, realistic and brilliant, meander into the furrows of self-delusion. It wasn't fair on the men, or him.

So, he slammed the datapad down hard onto the desk, and turned a sinister, cold expression on General Matthew Greyson.

"Sir, where's your edge? In Siberia, you were making plans constantly; in Britain, every piece of information set you into bouncing plans of your Command Staff like a tennis match. Now look at you!" By the end, Demar was shouting, deliberately. He knew his best friend.

"Calm doon, laddy, I'm fin-" The old man's typical taciturn response was broken off by the first piece of violence Demar had perpetrated in 18 years. Gripping Greyson's jacket, he hefted the man out of his seat like he was nothing, and hissed into his face.

"No, I won't fucking calm down." First swear word he'd used on Greyson in decades. "While you're sitting on your arse, smoking cigars and tossing off over your 'fake' son's achievements, I'm here busting my arse day-in, day-out, trying to prepare a fucking defence!" It was true. Greyson had given no orders since hitting Planetside. Merely falling into a self-pitying cycle of amused grumbling and tearful regrets. That wasn't General Greyson. He never cried.

His best friend blinked. Died. Went away. Colonel 'Fenris' Greyson looked back; the death glare stamped upon his grey wolf's eyes potent as the dawning sun.

Three solid punches, and Demar appreciated how bad an idea this was. A headbutt, shattering his nose like a coconut at a firing range, and Colonel Jon Demar was flat on his back, a very angry man standing over him; thick military boot upon his throat.

"Lista', ye rancid FUCKWIT!" A great boom echoed through the entire facility, causing Serra to wince. Only one reason Greyson would get that angry. "I'm yer fuckin' boss! Ye' so much 'as loo' at me with a glint in yer eye again, I'll shov' yer 'ead so far up your own ars' you'll be chokin' on yer own tonsils! I'm no' some' pretty Taiwanes' boy ye can' ben' ova' the chair and play with! MY NAM' IS GENERAL MATTHEW FUCKING GREYSON!" With that, he stamped firmly on his XO's skull, sending him into unconsciousness.

__

Even as he saw his old friend's boot descending towards his skull, Demar felt only one thought whizz through his head like a school boy peeing through a letterbox.

_Worth it. _

__

"OI! Medic! Get yer ars' in 'ere!" Greyson roared, his choler still up as high as Everest. Instantly, a white-jacketed soldier burst into the Office, eyes bulging at the Colonel. For a second, Greyson wondered why there was already a medic, standing outside, at the ready. Then that second past, and he barked his orders at him.

"I wan' 'im lookin' so goo' he coul' model fer a feckin' escor' agency! If I see so much 'as a blotch on 'is pretty fac', I'm comin' fer ye, laddy." There was a certain sinister edge to the last word; as if he was coming for him anyway, but it was in his best interests to do what he said, unless he wished that visit to involve extraordinary amounts of pain. Without further ado, the man set to work. Greyson stormed from the Office, tapping his earpiece.

"I wan' my Comman' Staff in tha' Comman' Centa' in 4 minu'es. Any slaka's will be fed to the Smurfs." He tapped it off again, even as he stormed through the iron corridors of Hell's Gate. As he did so, he glared potently at any passers-by – especially Serra, her lustrous red hair flowing neatly around her. She took it, stoically, before grinning as soon as he was out of sight. Dad was right; there was only one way to bring a Wolf's spirits up – make it use it's fangs.

Arriving at the shanty pile of shit he was going to be forced to use as a HQ...No, HAD been forced to use as a HQ. Every soldier knew that HQ was the General, not the place. Arriving there, he cleared the tactical display desk, and looked around at the 15 or so Staff Officers he brought with him. Why hadn't he called them together earlier? Didn't matter. Nothing mattered except organising a defence so fucking potent even a Roach would think twice before throwing it's great bulky warrior-caste against his walls.

"Alrigh', yer feckin' maggots. Wha's the status on the groun' companies?"

"Both have landed safely, Sir." Replied a potent, scarred young woman. 1st Lieutenant Vera; combat veteran. Not much to her, at first glance

"Any dea' from th' missions?" This time, Greyson levelled a thick talon at the youngest Officer; about 21 – most likely convinced to come here and die by a rich family who wanted rid of him.

"3 Wounded, General, but none dead. Only 15 Missions run as of yet, Sir."

Greyson nodded, taking only a few seconds to think.

"'Ow's Longfang doin' with tha' Na'vi?" Another levelled talon, this time at Lieutenant Vera again; he actually wanted to know the answer – wasn't just testing his staff.

"The Na'vi aren't very keen to accept our Men into their land, but as they scout more and more territory, they're slowly growing used to us. Longfang advised using Na'vi guides and scouts, aswell as attaching Riflemen Squads to any Na'vi emissary venturing to other tribes." This lass knew her stuff. Weren't be too good if she got boosted down due to a technicality. Without emotion or reflection. Greyson nodded and said

"Thank ye, Majer." And that was her field promotion. Collectively, the Staff's eyes opened wide with shock, but they'd get used to it. The great General Greyson was like that.

"Alrigh', maggo's." He tapped his datapad, and upon it displayed the numbers he needed to know.

"18,000 Na'vi. 30 Spor's...Minus 10 fer orbit'l fire...100,000 Jormungadr." He said it aloud, before giving the tactical display a firm kick. This shocked many of the Staff, those who hadn't expected this level of brutality from the previously docile General, as a topographical map burst into view.

"Alrigh'. I 'ave a plan." Greyson said, grinning his son's grin at the assembled Staff. His long hair was untied, his great beard flowed freely down his chest. Few men would expect him to be a tactical genius; but plans like this were why he was. It would be risky, very risky, and he only had a few weeks to put it into place, but if it succeeded, far more of his men would be taking the bus home then anyone thought.

The Wolf of Siberia had returned.


	8. A Flare of the Eyes

**A/N: **This one got to me. Reviews, please! Will be redoing several Chapters, primarily Chapter 1, tommorow, so don't expect any new chapters! However, I will very soon be doing a few Na'vi Chapters, so for all you Smurf-Lovers, get ready!

Oh, and a MASSIVE thank you to everyone reviewing! Aniuwolfe, thanks - Greyson's accent is just as hard to write as it is to read. Sunkissedvampire; I hope you've changed your mind on Jake, Onigumo - I've PMed you on your comment. The rest of you guys, thanks for the praise! You guys keep me going! Well, you and the fact that I love my characters, but STILL! Yereton, RadicalMan69, AlienPhantom, Maira Der Panda, SheelaGirl and Mystik Shadows!

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_Regard your Soldiers as your children, and they will follow you in the deepest valleys. Look upon them as your own beloved sons,and they will stand by you, even unto death._

Demar's eyes hurt. Oh, they hurt a lot. 'Like a bitch' wasn't quite the correct expression. More like the queen of all bitches; tooled up with an AMP. Oh, that was something good to think about. They only had 50 of them. Fuck it, the SecFor had had that many! Bloody perfect. So, they were going into battle against a fucking horde with mostly Rifles, Tanks and naked savages...He was forgetting the guy who had given him the ass-kicking. Why did he have to do this? Being an XO to the Post-Atomic equivalent of Napoleon, Wellington and Marlborough all squashed into one; with a Wolf and a Viking thrown in for good measure, wasn't too pleasant. The bed beneath Demar was soft, atleast, so he decided to stop grumbling and open his eyes. That would probably show him a beautiful ceiling, and give him some things to look at; examine, quiz.

Fucker.

"'Ow ye doin', Colonel?"

When a Wolf's grin greets you, there's a certain emotion that goes through you; fear. Especially when that old Wolf had recently beat you into the ground, with a broken nose for interest. General Greyson was looking down on him, smiling his smug arse off, beard no longer drooping like some violent lava flow. Infact, it wasn't there. For once, he'd buttoned up his Officer's jacket, removed his medals and, the main thing, cut his hair. Gone was the drunken, sadistic Viking. Here to stay was the clean-shaven, buzz-cut fucker who could lay you on your arse, conquer your country and conduct an orchestra all in one sitting. Along time ago, a young 3rd Lieutenant called Jon Demar had been assigned to a Captain, and the first duty he was ever given was to lead an infantry assault against a fortified gun enplacement. Days like that made men; and he had been forged. By THIS man.

If you looked at Greyson without his hair, you understood why they put a rank restriction on frontline duty. With no beard, his stoic, rock hard chin shone through – only helped by the shrapnel holes through his left cheek. They allowed you to see into his mouth. Along with that, not a single batch of flesh wasn't puckered with scar tissue; years of constant fighting had taken their toll, but it was if his skin fought back against the scars, incorporating into a visage that had once looked a Sergeant by the name of Quaritch in the eye and made him squeal like a little girl. His buzzcut hair gave him the image of an ancient bruiser, come back from the dead to grind over a few last foes. In a way, that was a correct description. If Generals like this went into frontline combat, noone would bother coming out of their holes.

"Nice...haircut...Sir." Demar managed, though he thought it was unnecessary, as Greyson doubtlessly knew how he looked without viking braids and beard. An attempt to twitch his nose revealed that it was in Plasti-cast, and that meant he'd have it off by the end of the day. Also meant that it had been a light beating.

"Sav' th' ars'lickin' for the privy, XO, I go' werk fer ya'." The grin had gone, and the soldier's expression was there. Narrowed eyebrows. Tight, slash of a mouth. Seems the General hadn't decided to demote Demar's straight-backed behind; like at Vitebsk. When Lieutenant Colonel Greyson had seen Russian children raped, tortured and killed by advancing UN troops, he'd ordered the perpetrators shot, and thrown himself into a drunken rage for a week. Only by taunting the great man had 1st Lieutenant Demar saved him; and he'd got busted back to the ranks for his trouble.

"I've missed you, Sir." Demar managed, the helpful stimulants letting him move more and more. Good; as the beating he'd got from Greyson, though light, would have had him in Hospital for a few weeks anywhere else. Greyson had already gripped Demar by the back of his collar, and was proudly forcing him into a standing position, without so much as a glance at the orderlies. As Demar uttered those words, the General allowed a tiny flicker of the corner of his mouth that was facing away from his XO.

"Yea', yea'. Go' aboo' 4 Na'vi reps comin', I wan' someon' with a decen' 'ead on 'is shoulda's – even if 'e does 'av' a fuckin' rancid mouth." Looking down, Demar realised that he was still in his uniform; though blood had been stained down it's front, courtesy of Greyson Industries. Well, it didn't much matter. If Greyson didn't care, neither did he.

They left the sick-bay, Greyson simply glaring at the medical officer, an old War-surgeon. He glared right back with equal intensity, but didn't intervene. No, not many did. The Staff Officers had spread it around to pretty much every last member of the Expedition planetside; the General was back. And that meant 'DUCK IN COVER, PEOPLE!' to every last one of them.

For the first few steps out of med bay, Demar was half-supported, half-carried by his commanding officer. But he grudgingly pushed away from him and stepped cautiously alongside him, even as they began to exchange the closest thing they'd ever to come to pleasantries.

"How long was I out?" Demar asked, rolling his neck, and scratching the front of his skull; it hurt like a bitch. For once, it was the correct expression, as Demar had been mauled by a dog once; this felt like that.

"Aboo' 4 days. May 'av' go' a wee bi' ovaze'lous with disciplin'." He snorted, with a sneer on his face, symbolising that if Demar commented he'd be getting a similar coyrse of treatment to his previous foray.

"How have you convinced the Na'vi clans to gather?" That was the question; they'd hardly even got the turncoat's Clan to co-operate (in a half-assed way), and though they had been worse affected by RDA, they had a Leader who was once human. How in the name of the Good Lord Greyson had got the others to listen was beyond him; and he didn't want it to be.

And it suddenly became obvious when Greyson grinned, from ear to ear, and clicked his metallic fingers on the left arm.

"I spok' to 'em! Go' that Jakesully fella' to tak' me to 'em and translat', an' I shoute' at 'em. Told 'em I dinnae giv' a shit whetha' they all die' or no'. Just care' aboo' my plan't an' my boys." As he said this, Greyson scratched furiously at his shoulder joint; damn thing was itching again.

"I thin' they foun' it far more believ'ble tha' I wasnae fightin' for 'em." The grin disappeared after that, as they had quickly come up to the entrance to the Command Center.

"Alrigh'. Keep on ya' toes, think fas' an' don' lemme doon." They entered. It was the kind of entrance that noone notices; because the men aren't fucking actors. They just quietly take their places, and wait for all eyes to fall upon them, because they know they will. Because they are men; they are Soldiers. They had marched over mountains, through marshes, through hardship and pain, to crush the greatest armies Mankind had ever assembled. And all by being the rudest, crudest, dirtiest, sneakiest and smartest pair of fuckers the UN had ever given a gun and a few badly-worded orders to.

At the forefront of the Tactical Display Desk, which will hereafter be referred to as the TDD for literary convenience, they stood. Colonel Jon Demar of the 3rd Battalion, Executive Officer to General Matthew 'Fenris' Greyson, 1st Commander in Chief of the UN Expeditionary Force.

Around the display, stood 5 great Na'vi. Three were female; Neytiri, Tsahik Sanume; a black haired female with a slightly more welcoming approach to the Humans; alongside this was the the one from the Eastern sea; she wore a crude, savage helmet of a Banshee's skull, but Greyson had learnt to respect her. The two males were Jake Sully, his powerful braid still smarting from PFC Potter's 'mistep', and the Tsahik of the Western Plains, a rather moudly bone through his nose. Just looking at them, Greyson felt an intense desire to chuckle, laugh and then go get so hammered he'd be convinced he was an Owl. Yes, they were big, but Roaches were a lot bigger, perfectly evolved to eat and kill, and pretty great at not dieing. Still, there were 9 times as many Na'vi as there were Troopers. So it was a case of that Napoleonic Quote "_Tread with them as if they had 200,000 men." _They were his Officers.

All glared ferociously at Greyson, but did not show any other signs of aggression. 15 Staff Officers stood behind them, looking very much like children; they were both small and terrified by the aggression of the Na'vi. So they should be.

Each of the Na'vi glared at the two new arrivals, but especially at Greyson. Neytiri even went so far as to bare her teeth and snarl. But he wasn't one to get unnerved by a 10 foot Cat-woman. Like a Wolf, he simply sneered back at her, much like their first meeting. Though they had both gained a respect for each other, the chances of them being friends were non-existent at best; far higher to go in the other direction.

_Greyson had strode into the base of the sapling Home Tree, eyes contemptful as any Industrialist is of a massed natural home. Well, that was a bad example. Eyes contemptful as Greyson upon anything that wasn't stupidly efficient, brilliant or his own son. Lots of glowing leaves, lots of overgrown blue cats. Nothing terribly special. There really wasn't any hesitation as he quizzed himself upon it._

"_And thes' are our suppor'?" It was said with a sneer, as was everything he had ever said to a Na'vi, about a Na'vi, or in the general area of a Na'vi._

_Neytiri had glared down at the Sky People's War chief. He looked much like the one known as Quaritch to her; but thicker, leaner, and with a metal arm and leg. _

"_You insult us, tiny human?" A shudder beneath Greyson's feet, and Neytiri was behind him. She loomed over him like the great war goddess she was; her bow in her hand, knife around her chest, and her mouth curled up into half a snarl._

"_If I'm insultin' ye, ye feckin' she-bitch, yer'll know." Pain had quickly followed that little statement, as a rather big hand struck him hard across the face. He was down on his hands and knees to her right, and she grinned. For a few seconds, atleast. Closely followed by him hammering his anvil of a fist directly onto her toes. With a great hoot of pain, she yelped away, clutching her to his feet,spry as any Rifle, he laughed. Around him, other Omaticaya were emerging, similar glares upon her face. Neytiri had recovered, and was growling devilishly at Greyson. In non-chalant response, he shrugged, rubbing his stinging cheek. Lass hit like a train._

"_Loo', lass. We're gunnae be workin' togetha', so we migh' aswell ge' this whol' figh' thin' oota th' way. Ye win. Now sit an' talk with me." He gestured down at the patch of grass between them, and sat before her cross-legged. Why she had agreed, he didn't know, but they had talked._

Greyson still felt that hit across his cheek, but he didn't much mind. Getting hit by a woman, of any species, had been a lifelong privilege of his. But he didn't have the time or god-given patience to dally around convincing each and every Na'vi he was worth listening to. So, he got their Elders' trust, and then gave them orders. No questions asked.

Sliding his arms onto the edge of the TDD, Greyson allowed his wolf grey eyes to bear into them with the unrelenting fury of a drill. Each one felt it, and felt a part of their hate rise; but another part drop away...Doubt, perhaps.

"Jake. Neytiri. Translat', if ye will." He said, nodding at the two. With a few well-placed fingers, he brought up his plan upon the TDD. It was a topographical view of the side of a mountain. It was not a very steep mountain; infact the slopes were very gentle as they lead up to the Peak. The key feature was what lay before the mountain. Any Military man would call it a 'killing ground'. It was the work of the RDA's diggers 2 years ago; after the Unobtanium had been dug out from below the mountain, they'd simply piled the dirt right back in. In doing so, they created a basin. The slopes of the mountain were covered with crevices and indentations, aswell as possessing several easy paths upwards. To a man or Na'vi. At the top was a flat plateau, where the RDA had previously positioned a scanning post. The basin was roughly a mile wide, and 3 miles long; a great gouge of dirt in the Pandoran Landscape. Right near the mountain, there was a ridge, before it turned into the cluster of rocks, sharp precipices and daring foliage that marked it's beginning. Around the edge of this perfect battlefield, massively thick Pandoran jungle began and never ended.

"This, my Na'vi frien's, is Minin' Site X34TYN. Codename 'Valhalla'. For our purpos's, it is 'eav'n, 'ell and limbo all in one. This is where we stan'." Oh, god, Demar thought. If he was wearing that grin, that grin he wore as he said the last words, he had a plan that was very risky, suicidal, or just plain impossible. Most of the time, it was all three. And this was the General on a good day...

"I'll deploy one thousan' five 'undred men in trench's an' alon' the slop's. A' the top ar' our 'Owitzers and Lanca' Artillery. 'Eavy stuff. Three 'undred men 'ere." He tapped the display at a point just to the left of the basin. "in AMP sui's an' fast-moving ve'icles. Includin' the Tank Comp'nies. We use an EMP charg', once the Underburrows are within sixty miles of Valhalla. The Jormungadr will respon'; attackin' in full force."

The Na'vi were amazed and awed at the tactical display; each one carefully examining it before darting away as the image flickered at their touch. But they listened to him.

"Where will The People fight?" Neytiri asked, her attention temporarily pulled away by a shiny marker representing an artillery emplacement.

"You will 'unt down tha' breeda's." Greyson was renowned for his ability to stump people. From children to the President of the UN, his plans had left men scratching their heads, biting their lips, but, more often, grinning like him, punching the air and with a belief that is more important then any weapons, any numbers, any equipment. The belief that one can win. Alongtime ago, he had found out that men with that fire within them could beat any numbers, any odds.

But the Na'vi did not have that look in their eyes. Not yet.

"We will draw th' 'orde of Jormungadr to this basin. We will decimat' them. Our greates' soldiers will lead a party of nine 'undred Na'vi each deep inta' the Roaches hives. Kill them. One party fer each breeda'." That made a spark flare in their eyes. Jake leaned forward, having been under impressed by the TDD, as he had seen it countless times, but as he observed the dislay, he had his questions.

"Why can't we stop them from landing at all."

Demar was the one to answer, albeit it a very nasal tone.

"We've brought with us ten 'SOSM's. These will destroy ten breeder spores." These things had replaced 10 Challenger V Main Battle Tanks; they were immense, but essential. Jake hastily translated to the other three Tsahiks, as he had been doing throughout most of the meeting

"Why not kill as they land?" Neytiri asked, glancing quickly between Demar and Greyson. Both shook their heads, one with a sorrowful sigh, the other with a sneer.

"Lass, thes' thin's burrow doon fifty fee' the momen' they hi' anythin' bu' concrete. Bu' they leav' massive, gapin' 'oles fer the Jormungadr to ge' through'." These holes were eternally immense; great portals in the ground from which hell itself erupted. The one in Manchester had been a quarter of a mile wide, and went down several dozen miles. Further then any human digger.

Neytiri nodded, finally realising what the humans were proposing.

"Sacrifice." she said, the word long ago being taught to her by Jake. It was the act of giving up oneself for something else. She thought it only a Na'vi quality; none of the first Sky People had sacrificed themselves in the great battle.

Greyson peered across at her, their eyes meeting once again. This time, he saw that flare; so he nodded.

"Every man I brough' with me kno's 'e ain' goin' 'ome. We're 'ere to do somethin' worth dyin' fer, Neytiri." It was the first time he had used that name. Saying it brought him a new respect for her. Just her name. But then he grinned, and the Na'vi all opened their great golden eyes in surprise. Even Jake crooked an eyebrow.

"Bu' ye' ge' ta' choos'. Should ye kill tha' Breeda's befor' we all die, ye very well may be abl' to sav' us." He was gambling here. Greyson was taking another roll of the dice. Would these honourable people fuck him and his men over? Or would they be their salvation? Would his men be going home?

The response of the Na'vi was the one he had looked for the entire meeting. The flare in their eyes. The look of sheer belief. Moral, belief, fire, whatever you called it, it was the prime objective of a General. And he'd done it.

Standing to his full height, Greyson and Demar both saw that look of horror and awe upon their faces. The plan was simple; draw your opponent close, while your friend guts him.

Jake looked Greyson dead in the eye. There was something that had been running through his head for a while now. Something that needed answering if they were to work together.

"Why are you sacrificing your own men, instead of The People?" It was a cynical question, and Greyson admired him for asking it. Not many would have the sheer testicles. But he knew the false answer.

"We're betta' traine' fer this; betta' equippe'."

"With no respect, General, that's shit."

So, he would have to tell the Na'vi the reason why he wanted to deploy his troops to most likely die.

"Mate. We' 'umans, ye rememba' us, 'ave very prickly pride. I could no' save my 'omelan'." The power of those grey eyes turned upon Jake like hammers, eradicating any sense of disgust he had previously bore the man. "Bu' I can show thes' bastar's wha' I' is to fuck with me. I can giv' my sons one last 'urrah befor' they go 'ome and becom' nothin' bu' forgotten relics of a dea' age. I can giv' them a battle to be prou' of." He lifted his cliff-face of a chin high, puffed out his chest and spoke to them all, Neytiri translating, Jake utterly transfixed by this man; so similar to Quaritch, yet so different. Demar merely looked within himself, and found himself wishing he had done more in Britain.

"Togetha'. My family will die togetha', doin' somethin' good fer onc'." Then, without an ounce of shame or hindrance, he turned to the door. He looked back, once, and grinned.

"Wha'? Ye expectin' a speech? Get yer ar's to werk!"


	9. Forest Hunter

**A/N: **Well, I've got some good news and some bad. Bad news is that this chapter is reasonbly short; but I like it nonetheless. Good news is that it's giving me a ton of inspiration for the Na'vi, and also plenty for the story. Hope you enjoy! And get your Na'vi dictionaries out!

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Na'ring' Taronyu moved silently through the undergrowth, like a shadow through the night. His bow was half-drawn, the arrow placed upon it dipped with the deadly poison upon which he had felled so many. The SecFor Marine was incautious, and therefore earnt his death. Na'ring moved amongst the Pandoran undergrowth like it's child; for that he was, he was born to the forest like a leaf is born to the tree.

He took shelter in a mother bush, it's spindly branches blooming with large, lush leaves. The human had began to yawn, bringing his head up. In a single fluid motion, Na'ring drew his bowstring back to his ear, and loosed, watching the beautiful creation flew strong and true. It did not stick in the Human's throat; it went through it, carving a great gouge in his throat.

Na'ring disappeared into the undergrowth, before the human's body even registered it's own death

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12 months later

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"Fpeio Na'ring'Taronyu thakkr terkup."(*Challenge the Forest Hunter, then die.*) The Clan Leader, who was once Dreamwalker said, glaring down at the youth. He was strong, and a good hunter, but he could not match that devil. Only Tsu'tey could have done that, and he was dead. Gone to be with Eywa. But Na'ring was becoming a serious liability. Continually, he offended any hunters he came across. Continually, he refused to become One with The People. He said that he was not of The People, but the Forest, and that worried both Olo'eytkan Jake and Tsahik Neytiri. They sat, here, underneath the Tree of Souls, even as Hometree grew new life, surrounded by thirty of the People. Young Na'atan was a promising hunter, and he had asked to go with Na'ring deep into Palulukan territory. But, as always, Na'ring had refused, albeit politely. Na'atan had followed him; and spoilt his hunt for an Angtsik youngling, by shooting too soon. The marks of discipline were clear; a cut across the face, dozens of bruises over his body. Na'ring had lost his temper.

"Na'ring tsap'alute zene ting."(*Forest must give an apology) Neytiri spoke, her voice clear and potent, her strong presence only amplified by her mother, the former Tsahik, sitting comfortably in the great presence of the Tree of Souls. But both Jake and Neytiri knew he never would. When The Sky People had come, he had disappeared for many years, silently hunting them down; savagely and brutally. That was when he had been Nawm'Laso, and young. He had left before Neytiri was even born; and returned when she was Tsahik.

The People nodded in agreement with their Tsahik's words. The lonely one had been too proud too long. He must be brought to heel, before he kills someone in his blind fits of rage. And if he did; The People must kill him. And he would fight them, sure as Eywa lives.

"Slu Na'vi poan zene" (*Become Na'vi, he must.) Jake commanded, an edge of hesitation to his order. Yes, Na'ring was very detached, but who would he choose as his life mate? He would have to if they forced him to partake in the ritual...But he was a very handsome man, and the greatest hunter in the Clan. Yet...he was so very prickly. Neytiri, her guiding hand helping him in these difficult situations, brought forth an idea.

"Na'ring zenekip Na'vi rey, ke kawtu. Pxay'trr." (*Forest must live among us, not around us. Many days.)

Once again, the Clan agreed. Though fifty were away on hunts, they would return soon, and so, inevitably, would Na'ring Taronyu. He simply left the body at The Tree of Souls, with a portion cut out of it for himself. This time, he would find the People waiting, with drawn bows.

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Na'ring had been in better situations. His arms ached fiercely, incredibly fiercely from a day hunting the Great Angtsik. His bow fingers were raw, and painful; his palms even more so from dragging the massive calf through the forest, all the way to the Tree of Souls. And now, his own people were proudly pointing very sharp arrows at him. Better situations...Yes. Angrier? No. You try keeping your temper when the People you have protected, fed and watched over certainly turn on you with arrows.

"Pelun pähem swizav?!" He bellowed, a potent sound to anyone's mind as he demanded to know why he was being threatened. Sixty Archers are not something to contend with.

Neytiri and Jake emerged from the throng, Jake adorned in the same attire he had worn in the Great Battle, albeit with Eytucan's great mantle of exotic feathers. The Tsahik wore her mother's long robe, but it ill suited her. She was a hunter to the core.

"Tirey Na'vi kip, fu terkup. Nga fxtey, skxawng." (*Live amongst The People, or die. Your choice, moron.) Neytiri snarled harshly up at Na'ring, his great mass of wild hair preventing her from looking into his powerful, yellow eyes. She was undaunted, and it was Eywa's will that this wayward hunter be brought back into the fold. Neytiri scowled, but Jake simply held his chin high, looking at Na'ring response. It was typical of him. He snarled, and stamped his foot in anger.

"Na'ring sa'nok, ke Na'vi!"(*The Forest is my mother, not the Na'vi.) He raged, snapping his teeth together in a feral way, but keeping his hands far away from the bow upon his back. He wasn't stupid enough to give some plucky youngly a reason to kill him. At twenty five summers, Na'ring had made many enemies. And they all would love nothing more then to kill him...He'd saved just as many, but when the Clan Leaders turn on you, so do the Clan. It was just that simple.

"Fxtey, skxawng."(*Choose, moron.) Jake said, this time forcefully, supporting his lifemate to the death. Well, a choice between living and dying, eh? That was a choice that more or less made itself...

But that is a tale for another time...

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4 months later

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"Skxawng!" Na'ring cried, hitting the Sky man fiercely across the back of his head. The long-haired nantang-lover glared up at him, briefly, but he once again attempted to pull the bow. This time, he got the positioning right. Elbow was high, and straight. Bow-arm was straight, and taut, and all this was being done with a child's bow. No wonder these people needed the Na'vi's help...

"Lonu." (*Release) Na'ring whispered, ever so quietly into the man's ear. The arrow soared over the ravine, thumping into a tree trunk 300 yards over the great gulf in the landscape with a satisfied sound. The nantang-lover grinned that horrific grin, and looked up at his teacher like a puppy begging for praise. When Na'ring simply crooked an eyebrow, the grin dropped.

"You're going to make me go get it, aren't." He said. Na'ring just kept staring at him; he actually wanted him to try again, but didn't protest as the human started to make his way down the sheer ravine walls, muttering in his piggish language. How was he expected to teach something that was so frail, so weak? It wasn't even a Dreamwalker! Just a small, fleshy bundle.

But it had it's good points. It wasn't as stupid as it looked, which was a welcome change. It didn't protest at being manhandled, and was tough. Plus, it had gained the trust of a nantang, which meant a lot to some Na'vi. To Na'ring, it just meant he'd be harder to kill if it came down to it.

Looking down as he forced his way down the slope, picking through thick blue leaves and effervescent, spindly branches; as the unruly soil rolled beneath him, he could tell that he had strength. But there was that old urge...To draw his knife, leap down the slope and...

But that was from before.

Longfang idlely trudged through leave, grizzle and mud, until he reached the other side. With a great heave, he pulled the arrow free, and held it up in triumph. He got it! He got it! Why was this so meaningful to him? He didn't care, he had it! Well, now he had it, he noticed the Na'vi; a great brute of his species; with many long braids flowing around him, and a fierce cut across his bare chest. Taller then most, his eyes seemed to see into your soul without even trying. And his fingers. Two of them upon his right hand were raw and purple from constant bowmanship.

And guess what? Right now, he was aiming another arrow into the air, this time from his own bow. It was an incredible thing, watching him work. His muscles contorted perfectly, drawing the string back to his ear. A dagger-like ear saw along the arrow perfectly, seeing every possible trajectory of the missile. With a tweak of the wrist, he adjusted for the wind. And loosed.

It soared like the great Leonpetryx of the skies, dancing above the air currents before plummeting down, deep into the forest.

Na'ring grinned across the gorge. It was clear about his intention.

Longfang threw the arrow down, grumbling with intense ferocity. The moment he turned, Na'ring burst into resolute laughter, holding his stomach.

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Na'ring glared down at the new human. Oh, he was not like the others. He was bigger then most; taller, thicker, more powerful. About the same hair though; just a thin stubble around his head and jaw. Three tiny holes were poked in his cheek, and he seemed to wear them with intense pride. Even as he strode over to him, Jakesully beside him, Na'ring felt the hostility towards all humans dissipate, only a little. This was a warrior; blanketed in scars, fierce grey eyes, and a great, shiny stone hand. He wore a smart uniform; grey, with buttons. Jake was glaring at Na'ring to behave, even as Greyson looked him up and down.

"This is yer scou', eh? Loo's mor' lik' tha' jungl' then I expecte'." From him, that was great praise indeed, as Greyson thought that any Scout he could spot from a hundred yards away shouldn't be a scout.

Na'ring clipped an eyebrow at his clan leader, who nodded. Greyson looked between them, before snorting and jabbing Na'ring suddenly in his thick, muscular chest. Bastard had a job to do.

"Alrigh', fucka'. Yer' gonna' scou' ou' all possibl' rout's to...Wha' was I'? Txan tskxe? Weir' ars' languag'." Na'ring knew which mountain he meant; the Sky People had cleared it and turned it barren, and Jakesully had said it would be important. But the rest of the Sky Clan Leader's words? Gibberish. Utter gibberish.

"Nin fya'o txan tskxe" (*Find paths to Great Stone.) Jake quickly translated to Na'ring. In response the hunter snorted, very much like Greyson had, but nodded. He could do that, and do it. Well. He was the best hunter the Omaticaya had, and though he was of the Forest, he was also of the people. So he would do this, as he trusted Jakesully. Toruk Makto. Those words carried new meaning for Na'ring, since he had worked together to fell a Toruk. They were fierce.

It would be done. That was simple fact.


	10. Last Rites and Forgotten Siblings

**A/N: **Whew. Ten Chapters. I honestly didn't plan this to go on for so long. Thank you all for kind words, comments and advice. It's been one helluva run ,guys. Let's see if we can finish the race...

Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep reviewing!

__

_...In Death, we trust..._

Breathe. Breathe in deeply, so that your spirits flow together, as one. Breathe. Breathe slowly, so that the Palulukans and Nantangs sense the hidden strength within you. Breathe. Breathe always, so that you know you are alive. Na'ring had lived these rules for years, since his father had pulled him from his mother's arms and forced him to kill a Nantang pup with his bare hands. Eytukan had humiliated and punished his father for that, telling young Na'ring that it was wrong to kill animals without good reason, but Na'ring remembered it. His father, telling him the three rules of breath. The Pup, snarling it's fangs at him, snapping, full to the brim with fear. The cuts across his arms, the furious cries of his father as he mastered his breathing. The death rattle echoing from the Pup's jaws as Na'ring's hands clamped tightly around his throat. The shudder that went through him as he looked up, his father's approving gaze and his mother's horrified stare.

Na'ring hated his father for that. Despite all he had taught him, the love he had shown him, forever he hated him. Yes, the Nantang Pup was dying anyway. Yes, the father wished to make a born hunter out of him. Nothing excused it. Every night, Na#ring honoured the spirit of the young Nantang with a piece of food. And then, he bowed to the forest.

But he remembered the three rules of breathing. They were vital, as he moved through the forest, lightly, loosely, but silently, pouncing across a set of intertwining branches high above a thick gorge, forged in years long gone past by a trickling stream. Bow slung across his back, Na'ring was making good time. The Forest was his home, unlike any other Na'vi. Whilst they saw the sapling Hometree as the center of their life, Na'ring loved every leaf, every branch, every grain of dirt, as his home. Few understood, even fewer admired it. El'xyi was one of them. She was tall, strong, proud, the greatest rider of the Ikran amongst the Omaticaya, beautiful; her unique patterns and flowing hair took Na'ring breathe and cast it to the skies. She had total power over him, in every way.

As he dug his feet into the crevices of a great tree, she yanked violently on his tail, smiling with mirth as he collapsed to the ground. Oh, so she wanted to play, did she? Na'ring turne round, onto his belly, and kissed her feet. Giggling, she kicked him lightly, sending his grinning face arcing back, but he continued, slidinghis hand up her lower calf. Suddenly, he gripped her heel and yanked it towards him, sending her sprawling onto her back with a sharp cry. Like a nantang springing upon it's prey, he scrambled atop her.

"Ke'set..." She half-hissed, half-giggled as his lips brushed gently against her neck. They didn't have time for this, and they'd bonded before coming out but...

"Aynga mune!"(*You two!) Jakesully cried, giving Na'ring a harsh kick in the ribs. He rolled off El'xyi, glaring at his clan leader's intrusion, despite the fact he was right. They were meant to be scouting for any emissaries from the clans. Indeed, many emissaries had already arrived, and spoke with the Sky Palulukan in the shiny stone base. Few left happy, but all left agreeing to help.

Always one to get the last word in, El'xyi kissed Na'ring briefly, but passionately before shuffling from under him and darting up a tree.

"Pe'tse'a mi Na'ring?"(*What does she see in him?) Neytiri muttered, as she passed Jake and the still-prone Na'ring. Noone had been more surprised when the resident trickster of the Omaticaya had chosen Na'ring as her lifemate. In truth, Neytiri had fully expected no woman to allow Na'ring to go near them; and had been shocked almost to unconsciousness when she discovered El'xyi going on hunts with Na'ring.

But they were good together, Neytiri had to admit. They complimented each other. Much like her and Jake. Neytiri was vicious and fierce; Jake cool and moderate. Na'ring was harsh and serious; El'xyi playful and warm.

But Na'ring glared up at her, muttering something under his breath as he got to his feet. In response, she strode past and jabbed him, sharply with the edge of her bow, sending him hooting to the side. Neytiri really disliked Na'ring, even though he was one of The People. Old wounds rarely heal quickly. But that last thing had clearly burnt Jake's last tree. Glaring at them both, he gripped their braids and snarled

"Neytiri a' Na'ring, Jakesully a' El'xyi."

So, he wanted them both to scout? Together? So, Neytiri could show this skxawng what it was to be a real hunter. But Na'ring was already up, his hands reaching for two thick vines. With a dexterity that no one found surprising, the hunter shimmied up the vines like the wind rising up a mountain, before shifting his weight in great bouts, to swing up onto a thick branch.

El'xyi was gone into the forest, and Jake glanced at his love. She brushed up against him, quickly, and kissed him, before following hot on the trail of Na'ring. By Eiywa herself, he was fast. Leaping, pouncing, prancing through the Forest. But Neytiri was just as fast, and before long, she caught up with him, as he rested at a stream; poising on the edge of a sheer cliff, where the stream dropped down into the deepest jungle. For the first time, she got a good look at him. His braids were tied with the hairs of a forest ikran, and they fell down to his knees, freely. A scar across his face, reaching from just below his left eye, across his nose, to his right cheek, marred his face significantly, but he was still greatly handsome. Not as handsome as Jake, but Neytiri had no problem in amitting as to the physical prowess of a male. For it was inside that counted...Jake was warm, kind, wise and loving. Neytiri still remembered lying in her leaf-sack of the Kelkutrel sapling, and Jake lying beside her, content to simply be near her the whole time.

Na'ring had killed a Pup Nantang before she was even born. During the Times of Sorrow, he had abandoned the People to kill the Sky People. After the Sky People left, hereturned only in name...She had no respect for him. He was ruthless as the Forest, cold as the winds of the Sky Mountains, and heartless as the Palulukan. Except when he was with El'xyi...

But, getting closer to him, Neytiri saw that he was not resting, but looking amongst the stream. She tapped him upon the shoulder, and his dagger-like eyes fell upon her, but for a second, before they turned their scathing gaze upon a patch of dirt in the stream-bed. To be realistic, it was nought but a tiny trickles. Thousands of them dotted the landscape – the veins of Eiywa's life. For an attentive hunter, they told much. The patch of silt which Na'ring pointed to was imprinted with a very obvious sign; a Na'vi's footprint. Neytiri went to speak, but as her mouth opened, Na'ring stood up, turned, pressed his body against her's and placed a finger to her lips. She would have hit him, had he not been staring at the Angtsik behind her. The great beast snorted at the pair's intrusion.

"Tul ni'aw krrpe oe'pltxe" (*Run only when I say) He whispered to her, a stern look upon his face. His hands remained upon her lips, but his right hand gently eased his bow from his shoulders.

No.

He wasn't that stupid.

He wasn't.

He was an experienced hunter.

Yes

He was that stupid.

He was.

He was going to get himself killed.

His hand inched down to his quiver, and pulled the sharp, keen, perfectly fletched arrow. The Angtsik, Neytiri saw as she glanced over her shoulder, was a male. It's broad crest quivered gently, but it's eyes were cool. It was alone, strangely. Then, she noticed what Na'ring had noticed a few seconds ago; arrows sprouting from it's back like crude quills, or feathers.

"Tul!" Na'ring cried, and she didn't need telling twice. Sprinting across the stream, Na'ring hissed at the Angtsik, baring his fangs and sticking out his tongue, challenging it. Arrow to string. Neytiri was save now, easily 30 yards away. Na'ring, however, had only 10 yards between him and the massive beast. In response to the sudden movement, it stamped it's powerful front legs, the massive boney ram upon it's head gently rocking back and forth in preparation. As the string inched back towards Na'ring ear, his muscles rippling with the familiar movement, it charged. It was upon him. But it was slow; the nerve toxin of the spent arrows deadening it's reactions.

Na'ring whispered an apology, for he knew his aim would be true. His arrow fled from his string, the sinew twanged like some kind of musical instrument. It's sharp point imbedded itself up to the last feather in the Angtsik's right eye, but that didn't matter. Momentum.

Na'ring's heart stopped, a sudden realisation of incredible future pain. Well, he wasn't looking forward to that. He still had a choice. And a choice between living and dying?

Well, that' no choice at all.

The Angtsik was between him and the stream. There was only one hope. Not a good one. Not a good one at all, but a hope all the same.

In imitation of the ikran, Na'ring threw himself off the cliff edge, throwing his bow behind him. Looking back in those brief few moments, he saw the Angtsik crash through where he'd just been standing, and his beloved bow sail over it. For those moments, he felt identical to flying with Dag'ton; ever free. Utter weightlessness.

Then, an equally familiar feeling grippe him, as he began to fall into the stretching greenery. The cliff-face flashed past him, as he twirled and spun in the air. In this twirling miasma, he just barely registered that his hope was falsely place. There was no river below him. No rocks ever, but that was small blessing. Just great leaves.

Well, you had to die sometime.

__

"Sarge?"

"Yeah, Pist?"

"WHY THE FUCK ARE WE DOING THIS?!" Piston's voice carried faintly over the valley, in the shadow of Valhalla. He didn't much care; his hands were red and raw from gripping a trench-axe's rugged, leathery grip; his fingernails were bleeding from digging, by hand, through grit and gravel, and his back hurt like a fury from hefting the heavy, sodden dirt over his shoulder. Because it hadn't rained before they were ordered to dig the trenches. It had rained about 5 seconds after; of course. And had been raining for the 3 hours they'd been at it. Oh, yeah. He was English. He was born to rain. Virtually had webbed feet. But digging through sodden mud, in steaming hot temperatures, in the pouring rain, with nothing but a badly improvised shovel; far more use in hacking things up then digging, was not on.

And why? Because the Guv had decided to impress the natives by detonating the only earth-moving vehicles within 6 years travel. Sometimes, Piston really thought whoever was up there, or just the universe in general, was against him. Oh, he could be back at the base; enjoying chow, chow and more chow. Talking for hours with Emily...why did he miss her so much? They'd only known each other a week...

BUT INSTEAD! Instead, he was here. With a thousand other equally pissed off men, and more streaming in from the forest, they were making mountainside fortifications. Already, the men had fixed a phrase for the density and sheer quantity of trenches, earthworks and gun emplacements. A phrase that meant alot to every Infantryman far and wide.

'Monte Cassino's Grandad'

So Sarge could understand Piston grumbling, but he still had to beat him down to size a little.

"Piston. Next time, you think of joining the Rifles, read the fucking job-description. It did not include 'Sitting on your fat, lazy arse and fucking the pretty scientist'; it actually meant WORK!" He turned and growled under his hood at the young Rifle. Everyone knew they'd only shared a bunk once, but that meant jack-shit to Soldiers. Most of them wouldn't be seeing home again. Best to accept that quickly. So, they shared in their comrade's happiness. They played pranks, sure, but nothing more. Everyone, from the brutal, barbaric Shaka to the passive, genuine Techy were secretly happy for him.

But they were all digging. Just like they had in Saint Petersburg; where a Russian counterattack had forced the UN forces into a desperate fight for survival. There was something strangely uplifting about it. Even the Officers had picked up a shovel and start hacking away at the soil, or helped tie down the rain-coverings for the Artillery. Even from down here, Sarge could see the barrels of those great cannons poking out over the top of the mountain. Essentially, a 'Groundhammer 67' was a single, long silver barrel. Two stabilising legs were deployed to either side; behind it, the recoil carriage was a semi-circle of carbon-steel. 9 Pins dug into the ground. Over the bottom of the barrel, there was the reloading mechanism; just a cage over the bottom of the gun. A terminal seemed placed upon it as an afterthought. That terminal was the trigger, the information, and the adjusting mechanism; it utilised magnets to turn and twist the gun.

Fifty of these incredibly deadly guns, which could turn a Division's last stand into nought but a speed bump, sat upon the gentle mountain.

By all intense rights and purposes, those Guns were an Infantryman's saving grace and worst nightmare. They meant the difference between him scaling a fortification and being dead at it's base. Between being dead at it's base, and smiling with your mates, as you realise you've lived through it all. Why had Sarge been through it so much? He could've been a contender. He could've followed his father into Politics. Instead? He'd joined the Army as an Officer and...

That story wasn't much up for the telling.

Piston was grumbling now, but that would pass. Shaka stormed past, thick sodden sandbag over a burly shoulder, and slammed it against the parapet. By now, the trench was six feet deep now, with plastic boards used for firing steps. Engineers had placed trains into the ground, and that was why Sarge loved Engineers; the rain simply cantered down into the ground, instead of through your shoes.

As Corporal Gunpowder strode past, the Korean turned to look at Piston.

"Why have you not asked the question?" The ancient demolitionist said, his tarpaulin greatcoat pattering with the rain.

"What?" Piston asked, looking between Sarge and Gunpowder with the eyes of a stricken fawn. Very strange upon the now-stubble adorned face of PFC Eric Potter.

"We're facing giant insect steamrollers. Why are we digging trenches?" Sarge answered, echoing the question every last one of them had asked at Manchester. Piston went red, and murmured the question with his head down.

"The Worms have tiny little bugs on their skin. Look like a cross between a runny shit and a beetle. Spit bolts of acid that'll go through your skull. Plus, when the Worms get to our line, they have to go across the trenches – narrower we dig them, harder it is for them to get to us. At Manchester..." Sarge took a second to slide his shovel against the wall of the trench and sit down. Quickly, he attempted to light up a fag; and failed, swearing "At Cardiff, we sat deep in the trenches, all silent like, so when they rolled over, we just placed charges on their underbelly and watched as they exploded over behind us." Finally, the lighter sparked to violent, red life and lit the scarred soldier's cigarette.

"But there? We were outnumbered nine to one. 'Ere?" Sarge threw his arms wide, as if to encompass the whole direness of their situation. "Fifty to one? We don't stand a chance."

"Watch yer fuckin' tongu', Sergean'."

Everyone knew that accent, from the lowliest cook to Colonel Jon Demar. Like bolts sliding into place, the three men snapped to attention. Greyson was well-disguised; the tarpaulin greatcoat hid his bulk in a tirade of cloth and fabric; a great hood hung sodden over his head. But everyone could see the cigar being chewed in his scarred, fierce, snappish mouth.

"Ye'." His right hand came up, the hand barely visible out of his sleeve, pointing at Gunpowder "Pass us yer flask, laddy." The Korean was of an age with Greyson, but you didn't queston him without good reason. Flicking the flask off his belt, Gunpowder handed his commanding officer the canteen, who then proceeded to take a quick sip, before handing it back. He nodded and grunted his thanks.

"So, Sarge, 'ow ye 'andlin' me boy?"

"Going good, Sir." Sarge responded, still standing rigidly to attention.

"At eas', lads, I ain' no Provos'." The old soldier muttered, almost glaring at the man. He wasn't too keen on formality, the old Wolf. Adhered to it, but hated it. Few people doubted that had he his own say on the General Staff, there would have been big changes. Some people thought that was why he'd been sent to Pandora: if a General becomes too popular and too radical – get rid of him.

"So, boys, I'v' been thinkin'. Standar' orda's of a trench-lin' are fall bac' wheneva' th' lin' is ov'awhelme'. Been thinkin'. 'Ow abou' you lie doon. Stay 'ere. Let th' Worms go ova' ye. Then, when they're reelin' from the Tank attac'? Ye boys stan' up. Give 'em 'ell. Whaddya thin'? Greyson was asking them all, it seemed. Asking grunts for tactical advice? But Sarge wasn't shocked. He seemed to be thinking, running a thumb along his temple as he took a drag.

"No' a bad idea. But what if the Artillery get us?...But it's worth it, I think. Fulisade from a hundred odd rifles? May just be the winner. May just be the difference between us all dying here, and those Na'vi getting here in time. But you know what, Sir?" Sarge had turned the last few words into a challenge, looking his Commanding Officer in the eye.

"I think you will run off. I think you'll leave us to die, at the last moment. Just like Manchester."

Piston squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to see Sarge put flat on his back. But the thud, squelch and groan never came. Greyson just glared.

"Guess who's leadin' the Tank Compani's, ye fuckin' twit." Greyson snarled, but didn't hit him. Didn't demote him. Just walked past. His back was silent, foreboding as he stormed off down the line, the echoes of nightime beginning to play upon the horizon. Piston and Gunpowder looked at Sarge as if he'd just grown wings and announced himself the Messiah.

In response, Sarge just took a very, very long drag of his cigarette and said

"What? He's my brother. I can still teach the shithead a thing or two."


	11. Life and Fortune

**A/N: **Unashamedly, this Chapter is very much a 'filler' section. The Calm before the Storm, as it were.

Angtsik is the Na'vi name for a Hammerhead Titanothere.

Review, please!

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_...The True Horrors of War lie in the eyes of every Soldier..._

One can only live once, before you are embraced by Eiywa, and carried into the life. Before your energy is given back to the Planet, and allowed to flow freely once more. So, they always said, when you know you will die, think carefully of what you have accomplished. The things you have done. The people you have made smile. The differences you have made. From the tiniest action to your greatest achievement. Did you use what Eiywa gave you to the greater good of those you loved? Or did you squander it, throwing it away in useless gestures and selfish endeavours?

Na'ring could think of far better times to have an epiphany then falling from a cliff, greenery rushing up to meet you, deafened by your own momentum. But then again, most often life don't let you choose how to die. It was as if time slowed down, to give Na'ring an appreciation for his life. El'xyi; sore memories of a lost love, of dancing through the trees, riding their ikrans upon the zephyrs of the mountains, lying together in the highest treetops. Jakesully; sullen regret of a clan member lost, but not sorrow. Sorrow comes for only those we see as friends. Neytiri; pity and guilt for a hunter who has given his life for your's, willingly.

But nothing more. No happy memories of wrestling with a son, or dancing with a daughter. None of the clan gatherings, of dancing in the shade of the newborn Kelkutrel, sing, laughing. Few hunters would miss him upon their travels.

Something called to him. Something from within. Maybe it was Eiywa, but he heard it, loud and clear

"Live. That shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?" He remembered her voice.

Na'ring wanted a family. He wanted to wrestle with his son, teach him how to shoot. Nothing warmed his heart more then a daughter to dance with in unity. Few things he wanted more then to lie amongst the treetops with El'xyi once again. He wanted to join in the clan gatherings, he wanted to joke with the hunters.

Then, it became quite clear to him. You always have a choice. He didn't just want those things; he needed them. And a choice between living and dying? Well, that ain't no choice at all.

Turning in the air, like an ikran banking upon a fierce wind current, Na'ring spreads his arms and legs wide, in an attempt to slow his descent. Maybe just maybe...

No, it wasn't possible. You couldn't open your mouth, falling at that speed. But there was no need. A great cry, from high above...A shadow.

Dag'ton was diving, and fast. Incredibly fast. The speed of a brother soaring to save another. Neytiri saw nought but a flash of grey and black hide before the ikran dived past her, perfectly streamlined. Maybe this was why he was born? To save Na'ring. Maybe.

But the chance of that happening was becoming thinner and thinner, as the ground inched closer and closer. Dag'ton cried, shrilled, into the sky, begging for the world to give it strength to save it's makto...

The impact hurt. Hurt abit less then Na'ring expected. Actually, a whole lot less. The hunter opened his eyes, opened his senses, and saw that he was not dead. Dag'ton had pulled off probably one of the hardest dives any ikran had ever done. No rider would ask that kind of speed from his mount. But the bond between rider and mount transcending possibility, Na'ring thought. His braid nudged itself into that of Dag'ton.

The Ikran clearly communicated it's humour at Na'ring's fall, but also the intention to eat him if he ever did something so stupid again. Na'ring's response was a chuckle, as they banked upwards, the air-currents stinging the Na'vi's eyes. But, trusting his faithful hunting companion, he closed them.

For now, he had something to live for.

__

8 years previous

__

Forgot how to dream, Longfang had. Just had nightmares...

_"Take this knif', laddy." The sound echoed around the walls of the small, badly lit room._

_"Why?" Answered the boy, his _

_"I wan' ye t' kill tha' lass."_

_Greyson, tall, shaven-headed, phantasmal, iridescent in his own superiority. Face like the side of a Cliff. The look of a ruthless bastard. Bastard who'd slit a child's throat and not even look back. Just another tragedy on the road to Victory._

_The General kept his stony gaze upon the thing that was, biologically, his son. Realistically, this rabid little thing had spent 3 years cavorting around the Yorkshire dales, with a pack of stray dogs at his heels. _

_Longfang crept forward. The girl was tied to a chair. Chinese Spy, apparently. Young. Older then him, but young. Long black hair. Small, button nose. Tied. Gagged. Terrified. Beaten. Tortured. Just like him; only he was lucky enough for it all to be metaphorical._

_His hands shook. The blade was a simple kitchen utensil; stainless steel from point to pommel. If he didn't stop shaking soon, it'd fall out of his hands. Clatter on the floor. Wouldn't want that. Might make Paps angry. Definitely wouldn't want that_

_"Why?"_

_He didn't hold back with the punch. Sent the youngster to the floor, moaning, mewling like some kind of animal, a collosal bruise from temple to chin, blood pouring from his split lip. ._

_"Lad." Pap's voice came, strong, steady, unforgiving and always there. Longfang touched a hand to the side of his face; his fingers came away bloody. It was like his face was on fire down one side, tiny little flames sparking off every second. "It dinnae ge' easia'. Til ye' star' doin' i'. Don' ask why. Jus' do." Maybe a spark of kindness in that. Maybe a flicker of a memory. A memory of the General's first time. Bloodied. Losing your virginity. Getting your first pay cheque. So many phrases for the worst possible thing a human can do - but what Matt was bred to do._

_Longfang still grasped the knife in his childish hand. Blood was dripping from his mouth onto the floor now. Tears were falling like ash tumbling from a volcano. But no more sobs. Not much point. Best to do a thing, then live with the fear of doing it._

_He scrambled to his feet. Knife grasped tightly, like the bed's frame when the Soldiers had dragged him here; desperate, pleading, knowing._

_First step was hard. Very hard. Second one, not so much. Like wading through thick, watery silt. You just get used to how hard it is._

_Greyson stood behind him, stepping as he did, always at his back. Not there for support...Just to remind him he had no escape. Well, he thought that at the time. But him being there...Helped. Gave him something to base it off._

_He was never given a choice._

_Never given an option... _

"Wake up, Longy." Serra tapped his shoulder. How had he fallen asleep inside a ROC? Tiredness, mostly. Training, sometimes. When you spend 9 hours a day in a Scorpion, you learn how to sleep, even with a drill master shouting down your eardrum. It's a necessity. Longfang looked at her; in her Telvenoy gear, she was damn hard to recognise. The hood and mask covered her entire head in dark green cloth, except a thin, black seam for her eyes. Chest was covered by 6 bars of a shiny, grey metal, stretching down to her waist. A belt, covered in equipment, from their pistols to a screwdriver, sat just above her trousers; dirty, brown old trousers. But tough. Very tough. Excellent military-grade boots. Finally, a large mud-brown coat sat across her shoulders.

Every last one of them was attired exactly the same. Telvenoy Suits. Designed specifically for them. The plates across their chests were made of a titanium carbon fiber alloy. Very light, very strong, flexible. Bitch to get through. Bastard to get used to. But you did. Just had to; it was like riding getting used to glasses when you first lost some of your sight as a kid.

But Longy could tell Serra from a mile away. Only one who touched him. Nodding his thanks, he pulled his pistol from it's holster, looking down the barrel. It was a good cannon. Straight; 50 rounds, pinpoint accuracy. Reliable. He'd seen one of these go through a Plane's engine and come out still able to fire. 20 of the 'Aesir' sat in the shuttle, checking gear, some still sleeping, others head back, preparing themselves mentally. 'Aesir'. Only word Rodrigo Alucardo could assign for them. The only word which accurately described the power they wielded in every movement they made. Longfang reached behind his belt and pulled his knife. It was the same kitchen utensil he'd used all those years ago. But now? It was bloodstained, battered, scratched, but still sharp. He'd given it enormous care over his lifetime. If he looked closely enough, though, he could still see the drop of blood from the Chinese Girl; right on the tip of the blade. Nothing haunted him more. What would she be doing now? Raising a family, probably. Not in an unmarked grave. No. He had to convince himself he hadn't killed her that night. Or else everything he hated about everything he was might come flooding back. Lot more then he'd care to admit. Most Soldiers could comfort themselves with the idea of Next R&R. Next R&R I'll get out, they'd say. Not the Aesir. Born from birth to butcher. Like a Wolf Pup.

Gotta stop thinking like this, Longy, he told himself. But he knew he never would.

He struggled to his feet, looking into the shuttle bay as the Aesir turned their heads towards him. They'd had long grown used to the customary mission brief 5 minutes before drop. All of them would know little of their mission, except Longfang. The General's Favourite. They all had little quirks. Avus had the best eyes. Serra was the fastest on her feet. Taurus could lift an AMP suit. But ol' Longy? The Fastest with his hands. The Devil, they called him. Each had a genetic defect, and his was the worst. Serra had been...'born' with a third-eye; the scar from the surgery was nothing but a tiny line on her forehead, now. Lazarus had osteoporosis. But Longy? Longy had the bloodlust.

His shaded eyes looked around at them, his hand grasping tightly the hanging strap above his head as the ROC reverberated from the shockwaves of exploding missiles

"Follow me." He whispered, as the bay door whined open. Below them, only a few lights marked their target...

__

Present Day – 7 Days until 'Hell Day'

__

Greyson clenched his fists, once again amazed at the sheer unwilling co-operation of these prideful bastards. They seemed to think that at anytime, Greyson would turn around and announce his ownership of the Forest, and have all the War-leaders shot. Tempting though it was sometimes, that wouldn't help matters one little bit. He had to work with them. No other option. He currently sat, more sprawled in the former office of the Overseer from RDA. Currently on his way back to Earth. The General's legs were set upon the desk, the bionic cracking and clicking with every twitch or movement, like some kind of violent system of gears. A canteen full of a truly odorous liquid more suited to be called gastric juices then sustenance sat upon it, a few inches from his feet. Well, that was how he liked it. While he had the physique of a Soldier, a frontline one, his liver, lungs and skin had long ago been worn away by his excessive habits; not that he cared much. When he'd taken them up, he had assumed that he'd be dead before his 30th birthday. Funny how things turn out.

Right now, he was taking some down time; eyes closed head back. Every now and then a thought would run through his head which would cause him to smile, or sneer, or chuckle.

But, of course, such reverie is often broken. Not 5 minutes after he'd got back from Valhalla, Demar came through the door. He had cleaned his front jacket, now, and removed plaster upon his nose. The haughty uprightness had returned to his deadly, aquiline eyes. Striding into the Office from the Command Center, the XO stood to attention and saluted smartly. Greyson had already turned his full attention upon him, legs clattering to the floor and Wolf eyes digging into the Colonel's visage.

"Sir." Demar said, even as his hand arced up to his head.

"A' eas', Colonel." Greyson responded, rebuttoning the top of his jacket. Demar pulled down his hand and stood, arms behind back, a look of utter impartiality upon his face.

"Sir, Valhalla is ready. The Groundhammers are placed; suitable killing zones marked for the gunners. Along the slopes, heavy calliber machine guns and gun emplacements are prepared and primed. The Engineers have done a good job."

"Sham' non' o' 'em ar' goin' 'ome..."

"Sir, that's what I'm here to speak to you about. You seem utterly convinced that this part of the mission is suicide. With all due respect, Sir, I know you. You wouldn't place your men here without good reason. I understand your reasoning; The Na'vi are brilliant Light-Infantry – we've got Heavies, Artillery and Mechanised. But why not batter them from the sky as they come to us? Why not retreat and hammer them as they advance, like Kutuzov did from Novgorod to Warsaw? There are dozens of tactical options. Not neccesarily better then a Fortress-Mountain, but I wish to know your reasoning."

For a few moments, Demar was afraid that the General would lie him flat. But only a few. Because Greyson was, above all, a damn good officer. And he respected his men, as long as they did his duty. He seemed deep in thought as Demar spoke, and for a minute after, he just sat there, bionic hand grasping ragged chin.

"The Artillery wouldnae be effectiv' in the Jungl'. We'd 'ave to lure them t' kill-site afta' kill-site. Couldnae ensur' all the Jormungadr would com' t' each sit'. And if the Nativ's fough' the Worms in ther' tunnels? Ye rememba' I', Demar. Think bac'."

Darkness. Utter darkness. Dozens of tiny, writhing sounds, like drills inside of your ears, turning like cogs in the fore of your imagination. Your flashlight out due to electrostatic activity, but going forward anyway, if only because your Guv told you to, and because you're a Soldier. Barely hearing the man beside you get dragged down into the Warrens. Looking for him, before your next mate goes the same way. Before long, it's just you, a bowie knife and 50 feet to freedom.

"It was cold." Demar answered, allowing a tiny shrug of his shoulders to inform the General of his reluctance to speak of it. The response was typical, snarl, shake of the head.

"We nee' to pull them inta' thinkin' we're gamblin'. Think we're desperat'. We ar', bu' they don' kno' tha'. Momen' they thin' we're on our las' legs, tha's when the tide turns. Tha's the momen' we stan' a chanc'." Greyson rubbed the small hairs below his nose , before standing up, stretching his back in a familiar fashion.

Demar saw what he meant.

"Alright, Sir."


	12. Hell Day

**A/N: **So. Here it is. The beginning of the final battle. It's quite short, but I like it alot. Listen, I've been thinking about several sequels to this. I'll give details in the final chapter.

..._We Polish soldiers,_ _For our freedom and yours,_ _Have given our souls to God,_ _Our bodies to the soil of Italy,_ _And our hearts to Poland.._

**HELL DAY**

3:00am, 5th April, 2156

There's a feeling you get. Piston remembered that feeling. Same feeling he'd got a very long time ago. Remembered sitting in a lab, staring up at the skies. Wondering how those tiny bright lights could be super-massive balls of burning gas, sending him light from anywhere between a year or 500,000 years ago. Like little messages from space, from the great celestial giants. His old lab coat, with it's stained white side and torn label. The burn mark across it's left sleeve from when Dr. Leifenberg had thrown hot coffee at him when he asked his daughter to a rather charming local bar.

That feeling of absolute wonderment. As if you should be utterly humbled by the simple privilege of seeing it. You should be thanking whoever you see as the supreme being, and taking pictures to hang on your wall for generations. There's a feeling you get at seeing something truly majestic, no matter how foreboding it really is. His back was up against the watchpost; little more then an enlarged stick stuck in the ground. Behind him, the fortifications had taken shape in a truly magnificent display of what Men can do given time. The mud had given way to plasteel bunkers, thrown up in record time by Engineers who had broken the Great Wall. Great men. Sand bags were piled high, with pot holes for rifles, machine guns and light artillery. 3 Lines of Trenches before the Mountain, 6 further up the slopes, and a last stand atop with the groundhammers.

But this? This was something else. Over the skies of silken darkness, upon a clear Pandoran sky, as the orbs of light strieked their light towards him in greeting, there was new lights. Tiny dots of orange, breaking the peaceful visage of the silken blanket of twilight like knives upon a wool cover. But they were closing now, getting steadily larger. It wasn't something you saw every day. Wasn't something you saw very often at all.

"They're here." Came Sarge's familiar voice, shattering the silence once again. He knelt in the mud next to Piston, but the young trooper wasn't shocked. Eyes focused on the little jets of blazing light. Many others had similar affiliations. Heads began to pop out of the trenches, Exopacks on, faces fixed upon the 30 tiny torches.

"So here it is. The End Days."

Shaka's pertinent voice echoed across the Valhallan Battlefield. Slowly, but surely, those meteors were moving across the sky, like fire ants creeping surely along a rotting tree branch. It was a miasma of light, heading towards the ground.

Abruptly, there was a tiny shudder through the ground; brief, short, like a heavy vehicle rumbling past. Sure enough, massive white lights shot from the horizon to their right, in the direction of Hell's Gate. 10 of them, flying high in the direction of the scarlet-orange hunks of rock.

"That'll be the Lances. Demar's got his Maths right, once again..." Sarge muttered, his dull monotones the only sound in the cacophony of pitted silence. All in awe. All but one in horror. All but one in grim fear. All in anticipation. The White Lights drowned into the night, becoming nought but pinpricks upon the sky, in comparison to the gouging wounds as the Meteors came closer and closer. For, maybe an hour, this elusive opera played out, the Soldiers transfixed by it. Until, in an anticlimax of the highest caliber, the white lights blinked out, taking ten of the spores with them in brief, but bright, flashes of orangey-blue light. But 20 of the great rocks continued to descend. With a jolt, they suddenly began to become far, far bigger. When before they were merely the greatest stars in the sky, now they turned into what they were. Great ulcers upon the dark backdrop of serenity.

"Brace." Froggy muttered from his position, sitting in a trench, head tilted up at the luminescent sky.

The shock as the rocks hit the ground shook the entire landscape like a small child destroying it's least favourite toy in the fit's of a rage. Nothing matched it, excluding natural disasters. The trees shook, the men shook and the Fortifications quivered, but held. Then it was over. For now, atleast...

Men went to return to sleep, the most valued thing for a Soldier; other then food, ammo and clothing, of course. But there was an interruption. Someone was striding out into the Dead Man's land before the first trench line, a large man with smoke swirling from his head like a small industrial chimney. Abruptly, a flood light burst upon him as he came to a halt. Neat Officer's Jackets. Stars upon his collar. Bionic limbs. A scarred, haggard, shaven face. Several, great, 8 foot tall figures stood behind him. The Na'vi War-leaders. Come to see the final days. They all loked shocked, terrified and harrowed, muttering in their language. But The General simply ignored them, his entire attention focused upon the men who stood before him.

His voice boomed across the mountains, a tiny sonic microphone making him clearly audible for miles around.

"Any man who wish's to go 'ome now may do so now. You will return home with an 'onourabl' discharg' an' twent years backpay Merely come and stand behind me. You should all kno', lads, that we will all almos' certainly die 'ere." It was an offer that all men must give to those prepared to give their life. That last way out. A chance to go home. To live that life they'd dreamt about as children; to have children of their own. To live.

But one word worried Piston very much.

"Up." It was immediately followed by Sarge's hand upon his shoulder. He looked up at the old soldier's eyes, and saw nothing, as usual.

"PFC Potter. Eric. I want you to go and stand behind the General."

There was a lot of anger built up behind Piston's gaze; anyone could tell, even before he sprang to his feet. Sarge remained utterly impassive, even as the young man clenched his unsullied hands.

"Why?"

"Because you're not like us. You're pure. You can go home and become something good." It wasn't sad with that cold force Sarge always used. It was said with the willing conviction of one man to another. No command. Just advice. The rest of the squad were gathered behind the Veteran, nodding in agreement. And Piston's reply was equal to it.

"Sergeant, do you know the last thing I heard from my family? Their screams." He calmly said, and turned back to the General.

That settled it. A young man's decision to die. An election to stand and fight for a Planet you have nought but contempt and anger for.

Sarge grunted in response, as if he'd never even suggested it. Best, that. Best they forgot he'd even suggested it.

Seemed the Expedition had similar feelings. Echoes were great sounds in that dead field of utter silence. Some were nervous. Some were resolute. Others hesitated, thinking to take that last chance; before they remembered. Screams of utter horror as the Roaches' feeder tendrils snatched children from their mother's arms. Shrieks of rage as men held off the great Jormungadr so their families could escape. The pleading looks of those too far gone to save...

But there was life. Sweet, sweet life. Surely these Na'vi could hold the Jormungadr! Great Warriors, 8 feet tall, impossibly strong and fast...

A steady trickle of men began to file out of the trenches, assembling just before the General. Upon his face was the stoic expression of the emotionless General. It took some minutes, but before long the entire Expedition had begun to leave the trenches, and stand just before the Party. The Na'vi hissed in anger at such abandonment; these were meant to be Warriors!

But then a very particular thing happened. Sergeant strode up to his Superior Officer and looked the Wolf in the eyes. As it happened, the entire force snapped to rigid attention, from PFC Piston to Captain Redrik. Men with rock-jaws, heads held high, steel in their backs and but one conviction. Sarge hated his bastard brother. While Sarge had had all the advantages, Greyson had all the luck. But there was a point where one must transcend jealousy.

"General Greyson. First Pandoran Expeditionary Force Present and reporting for duty, Sir!"

As one, the men saluted their General. Row upon row of men, giving their lives to the soil of a Planet that had not birthed them, with a simple gesture of affirmation

Each one knew a simple truth; a truth that lies in the essence of every Soldier. A Soldier is different from a Warrior. A Soldier puts his life upon the line for others; his wellbeing, his body, his mind and his sanity.

Greyson grinned, from ear to ear, the first genuine smile of the Campaign.

"Men of the First Pandoran Expeditionary Force! Dismissed!"

No speech. No rousing call to arms in the name of their children. None was needed nor desired. These were men who had heard speeches from lesser men and great men, but far more of the former. But Greyson had something very specific to say. Turning to Jakesully, he had a completely different expression upon his face. His eyes were furrowed into blade-like sparks, his upper lip curled, and his fists clenched in a pure expression of rage

"My nam' is Matthew Greyson. I am a toleran' man; excep' when pushed. Ever doub' my men again, and you will 'ave pushed me." Nothing could have been simpler, and Jake saw that look. It wasn't the look of a man who saw killing as a great honour, or a pleasure. It was the look of a man who was born to violence, but hated it nonetheless. So, he nodded in response. Greyson trodded off, back towards the trenches, but the men were still assembled.

"I sai' dismisse', Expedition!"

It was a young lieutenant from the front rank who responded.

"Ahuuk tahuuk, General!"

It was quickly taken up, the sound began to roar around the valley. At first, but a few man cried the age-old motto of their General. But, slowly, more men began to say it. Shout it. Scream it to the heavens. The words that a young Colonel Greyson had whispered to his regiment, before leading them over the walls of Moscow, and carrying the most heavily fortified city upon the Planet. It was a saying stamped across the consciousness of every Soldier. One day, people would find the symbols "AT" in the snow. 2000 Men screamed these words to their General.

In reply, he merely smiled and said "Heads Held High, indee', laddies..."

The Men made their way back into the trenches, long after the Party had left for the crest of the Mountains. Greyson had looked very closely at the Na'vi as the men cheered, as they roared for victory. They had a look upon their faces which seemed to be a mix of shock, horror and utter disbelief. Like seeing an insect crawl up to a mountain and sing an opera. Like seeing a lonely, battered child with a passion for stones and video games save a school from a terrorist attack. Like seeing a people you once thought corrupt and evil turn around and choose to defend your Home. In their thousands.

That was a very satisfying moment for Greyson, they say. Some say it was the Greatest moment of his life. Smarter people knew it wasn't. Only the ones who knew him well realised that it meant jack-shit to _him. _But to his men? It meant a lot. The only thing that meant anything to Matthew Greyson were those men standing before him and saying they still trusted him to bring them out the other side.

_Not this time, boys...I'm sorry._


	13. A General's Plea

**A/N: **Can I just say that Cyanide, Nitrogen and Carbon Dioxide, combined would mean that the Pandoran Ecology would never get past the cellular level, as they do not simple have the energy to create large organisms, or sustain them. Check back in Earth's History; we had plenty of Carbon Dioxide floating around for milennia, with massive pockets of sulphur, cyanide and even lithium at some points. Only when oxygen was introduced did you get to the actual 'Organisms' part.

And the Human Genome has gone through periods where it has had the muscle strength of a Silverback Gorilla in thin, whip-like arms. If you have EVER read anything on Human Genetics, you'll know that most of that DNA still lies dormant. And read the passage carefully; and no point does he engage in a match where Jake can feasibly overpower him. Y'know, like how every single Martial Art teaches you to fight; but I suppose it didn't cross your mind that a Soldier might be trained in anything other then Dogma...

SO before you go criticising me AND my characters, read up. This isn't an actual account of events; it's Science Fiction. **_FICTION. _**I'm not a freaking Scientist, but I am a Writer. And I'm far too self-indulging to let the Truth get in the Way of a Good Story.

My apologies for that rant and the lateness of this Chapter.

____

_Excerpt from the Journal of Major General Matthew 'Odin' Greyson, posthumous rank Field Marshal of The United Nations Military Forces._

17th April 2156

I've never been a big writer. Triggers are my thing. Shouted commands. Knives. Fists. The most I've written are reports, but I feel I must pen this on a datapad older then I. The situation is looking bleak; but I'm used to that by now. Moscow was bleak; Vitebsk bleaker. I carried my men through that, losing bits of my humanity along the way...

But not this time. It's not a matter of 'Hold the Line'. It's a matter of 'Make them pay'. Death is a certainty, the only thing you've got left is to hammer the fuckers so hard that the Na'vi can save their world. Somehow, though, I think we can do it. I look down at my Men from Valhalla, and I see Israelites sharing canteens with Germans. Irish offering broth to English.

On Hell Day (5th April, 2156), I offered my men a chance to go home. Obviously, they refused. But I did it to see the look in the Na'vi's eyes. See, I'm no Philosopher. But I know one thing about my Race; we're worth fighting for. Through all the shit and silt I've had to wade through, I've seen glimmers of the one thing that truly separates us from the Na'vi – or any other race: A will. A will so strong that nothing can defy it.

See, when we started the Siberian Offensive, Kutuzov knew that everyone expected him to die. Preferably taking down a few Communist Armies in the process. But I remember being in the front rank of my Rifles and seeing him stride out before 100,000 tired, cold, unequipped and hungry men. Doubtless the speech has been recorded by older and wiser hands, but here it is by my ears.

"Men of the 1st Siberian Army. Today, we stand upon the brink of defeat. We are broken, battered and bruised." He spoke in Polish, but our HUDs translated. His chin lifted itself alittle. "But we are not dead. You draw breath, every last one of you. Therefore, you are Soldiers. Volunteers. From the furthest tip of Africa, to the beleaguered straits of Finland. Here. Now. Therefore, you can fight. Therefore, you can win. Therefore – you shall. I need not ask you follow me; I know you will. For we will turn the tide. We are the floodgates. We head east. And we shall not stop. Follow me, Men of the 1st, and we will be likened unto Gods forever."

Cheesy. Corny and full to the brim with bad historical references. But, I think, that's what we needed. That spark. He set light to the indomitable spirit of mankind, and from that moment on, we weren't stopping.

The Na'vi saw us at our worst. Gun-babies. Sadists. Fools and degenerates. The flotsam of Military life. Colonel Quaritch can be defined by historians, using an old Scottish term, as a fucking git. The Hammer of the Military is **always **the last resort. We are the silent mediator; we do not feel, we do not let our prejudices get in the way. Only when all options are exhausted to their fullest potential are we used. Quaritch forgot that; his spirit left him, and he fell. Add onto that the fact that it is written "_If your foes are superior, seek better ground."_

Custer and Quaritch. Both with only a few hundred men; both annihilated by two thousand angry natives.

But the Men I've brought? Shining records. Between all of them, there isn't a single Court Martial. Excluding Demar. And myself.

Of course.

They're the ones who you don't see. The soldiers who volunteer for the Forlorn Hope, not because they seek glory, but because if they don't do it, someone else will; better to die then know someone else did because you didn't have the guts to stand up and volunteer.. The unsung heroes of every campaign. Tough bastards, from the tops of their heads to their scarred little toes. They're the men who look up over the top of the trench, let go a puff of air, then run into hell.

And I'm sending these boys off to die? I've ordered over two thousand decent lads to sit atop a Hill and **die. **That's not nice. Y'know; I'd have thought after well over twenty thousand years of civilization, we'd have stopped doing this. Made some other way to kill off decent boys. Because, to me? This is just another cause worth dying for.

Yesterday, the 'Emissary Caste' pomped round the corner. This time, it was Silvan DePadiche, a French Scout. A spitter pounced on him, dragged him into the tunnels, where they stick his brain with a needle. This needle causes physical changes; his hair falls out, his eyes darken, his skin turns a pallid white; the result of a toxin which essentially makes him very, very nocturnal. In Britannia, they did it too about 60 men.

I can recall it. I was standing atop Valhalla, scanning the horizon for any signs of Roach vanguards. A tiny speck appeared from the forest. It got closer, and closer.

"We don't want to be here." It said, in a hollowed tone, somewhere between a swarm buzzing and a frenchman spluttering.

"We dinnae car'." Was my answer.

"We just want to go home."

"Then go."

"We can't."

I snorted in derision, down at this once-honourable man. The two XMX assault rifles jammed against his ribcage didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.

"Then we go' a problem, laddy." I growl, grinning at him like some barbarous Warlord.

"Why are we here, General?" the Emissary asked; using the term 'we' to refer to DePadiche – they had just brainwashed him, not implanted him with some communal hive mind.

"We're 'ere to stop ye' roach's getting' t' earth again."

The Former-Man's eyebrows raised in surprise, as if I'd told the Sky was about to fall by a child.

"Ah. So that's the lie they used."

Shit hits the fan quite hard. My mind instantly begins working, trying to figure out who lied, why they lied, how many times. It all goes through my head like an explosive charge from a Groundhammer; fast, harsh, fearless.

Nothing comes to mind. Because, a day ago, I actually believed that I was...'Great' enough not to be lied to.

When I bare my teeth this time, it's a snarl, my eyes are focused, and my cybernetic arm is upon my weapon.

"Explain."

"It's pretty obvious to an informed mind, General. Who ordered you here?"

"The United Nations Security Council."

"Who elects the Security Council?"

"The Elected Members of The World Government." I said it all in a precise, English accent; I never said official titles in my native tongue, as many simply could not understand it.

"And who elects them?"

"The People."

He cackled, loudly, drawing back his bald, pallid head to let forth a burst of laughter.

"Even with my pathetic understanding of World Politics, the Community" They're name for the Roaches "worked it out. Who pays for all that advertising, General? Who, essentially, pays for the Representatives? No, wait, a simpler question. Who is the biggest money-making corporation upon Earth?"

Oh god. That's what I thought. It all started to fit together, like pieces of a loved one's possessions selectively smashed to pieces. The RDA wanted Pandora. The RDA payed the Government...But the Scientists.

My face remained unperturbed, as I said.

"Yer gunnae destroy this plane' an'-"

"They lied, you bull-headed fool. The Roaches here will eat everything and then _die. _Now hollowing out of the planet. How exactly would we explode an entire planetoid, anyway? The propaganda your media fed into me and every soldier here was pretty 'tight', but it had holes."

Words no Soldier should ever hear. No man should ever hear.

I don't think I ever did truly believe what they told me on Earth. Too blinded by grief and rage. The ashes of my homeland stained my hands far worse then a child's blood stains that of a good man. A constant reminder of my eternal failure to save the one place I been fighting for, for the last 28 years of my life. I got an opportunity to come and get some payback. And I've dragged two thousand good men down with me. I didn't want to believe that; but it all fit into place. The silent, grey-figure at the back of the room when they'd given me my briefing. The sudden freedom of money, even though the UN was notoriously broke after the Wars.

Those were my thoughts. But then I spoke.

"Ye thin' I car'?"

I did, a lot, as I said that. But, creeping up my spine, was a sense of fury. A fury at being cheated, tricked and run-down my entire life. Not the fury at being insulted, or seeing my men die. The fury of having wasted my life. A dying man's rage.

DePadiche quirked an eyebrow.

"We're 'ere because' we're 'ere. Dinnae matta'. Every singl' boy 'ere knows wha' ye fecka's did to Britain. An' we're 'ere fer some feckin' backpay, aye?" The punch isn't hard, not for me, but it sends him reeling. He's nervous now, not too keen on dying.

"You can't hope to stand against the Community, General!"

I'm shouting now.

"Bring yer Hordes, ye bastar'. Bring every beas' from every star." I throw another punch, this time to his stomach, doubling him over. My right hand grips the back of his neck, and brings his pitch black eyes level to mine.

"We'll be waitin'."

I then dug my knee into his groin, and nodded at the Riflemen. Their shots were clean and well-placed.

Why? That was a question. Why were we here now?

To me, that was obvious. A soldier is a Protector. Doesn't matter what he's protecting, or the 'Why' of it. He is a protector. What kind of man would I be if I packed up and returned home? I'd be executed. And every single man would hate me; and the people would hate them.

A few seconds ago, I received word that the Swarm is on it's way. It will be here in one hour. This will be my first, last and only excerpt. If this ever returns home, know one thing: The Duty of a Soldier is not to Kill, but to Die...


End file.
